The door to the dressing room clicked shut behind him, muffling the applause.
Silence fell like dust.
Adrian leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closed, the adrenaline still humming faintly under his skin.
The air in the room smelled of roses and faint sweat, the perfume of too many bouquets.
A dozen mirrors lined the walls, each framed in gold, each reflecting his image from a slightly different angle.
He crossed the room, loosening the black tie at his throat.
The fabric slid away like a sigh.
In the reflection, he looked perfect.
The stage lights still clung to his skin, giving his face a soft glow.
His hair was immaculate, his eyes bright.
But if you looked closer — truly looked — you could see the hollowness around them, like a mask worn too long.
A voice drifted from behind him — his manager, knocking lightly.
"Beautiful performance, Adrian. They're already calling it your best yet. The critics will be—"
"Cancel the interviews," Adrian said quietly.
A pause.
The doorknob turned halfway, then stopped.
"Again? Adrian, they've been waiting—"
"Not tonight."
He heard a sigh, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps.
He turned back to the mirror.
For a moment, the room blurred — not from tears, but from exhaustion that reached the bone.
He pressed his palms against the vanity and stared into his reflection until the face looking back began to seem like someone else entirely.
"You did it again," he thought bitterly. "You made them believe you're alive."
He sat down heavily, staring at the piano-shaped pendant around his neck — silver, small, worn smooth by years of touch.
His thumb brushed it slowly.
Elise's gift.
The only piece of her he hadn't buried.