The velvet curtain parted without sound.
Marc stepped through it, instinctively brushing invisible dust from his jacket as he crossed the threshold. The air shifted—no wind, no sound. Just stillness.
Before him: a theater.
Rows of seats unfurled in perfect symmetry, cloaked in heavy shadow. The air smelled faintly of mildew and old makeup, tinged with something sharper—stage sweat, desperation, the ghost of a closing night with no encore.
A single spotlight glowed on the stage ahead, unwavering and sterile. It called to him.
Marc's throat tightened.
He'd stood on stages like this.
He'd owned stages like this.
But not this one.
This wasn't a room for applause. This was a grave dressed in red velvet.
He took a step forward, the soles of his shoes whispering against the dusty floor. Something inside him squirmed—a nostalgia so sharp it bordered on nausea.
Then the lights flickered.
The stage came to life.
Marc blinked.
He was up there.
Younger. Leaner. Smiling with that practiced glint in his eye. Not a memory or a video. Not quite a hallucination either.
A version of himself.
"Hey, thanks for coming out!" Stage-Marc said, pacing the boards with practiced ease. "Always good to be somewhere that doesn't smell like wet cheese and childhood trauma."
Marc knew the joke. Knew the timing.
Thin, artificial laughter piped through unseen speakers. It was hollow. A laugh track stitched from old sitcoms and dying dreams.
Marc turned—then froze.
The theater seats were full.
But not with people.
They sat unnaturally still. Slumped. Slack-jawed. Heads lolled to one side. Eyes dull and gray like frosted glass. Their faces were a grotesque pantomime of joy—some grinning too wide, others frozen mid-sneer. One in the front row had lips sewn shut, the stitches leaking black ink down her chin.
Corpses.
Wearing theater best. Watching him.
Marc stumbled backward. His heart thundered in his chest.
Onstage, his projection continued.
"Man, relationships, huh? Like driving through fog—you only see what's in front of you, and then BAM! You realize you've been in a ditch for years."
That joke. That was Eden's.
He remembered the night she workshopped it—nervous, raw, pacing in the hallway of that garbage bar downtown. She'd cracked the line through tears. He'd told her it was too niche. Too sad.
Then, after she disappeared—he'd polished it. Sweetened the wording. Changed the timing.
And used it.
He called it collaboration.
The corpses didn't laugh.
But they didn't leave either.
Marc turned toward the wings. Toward any exit.
He couldn't be here. This wasn't his scene anymore. This wasn't even real—
"Wait," said the voice on stage.
His voice.
The projected Marc paused mid-routine and turned to face him, smiling softly.
"You're not going to leave, are you? We haven't done the closer yet."
Marc took a step back.
The exit behind him was gone.
Where there had once been curtains—only wall now. Velvet stitched shut like skin over an old wound.
"You should sit," said the stage-Marc. "I want to show you something."
The spotlight shifted. A massive screen descended behind the figure, its frame pulsing with static. Then: motion.
Clips.
Dozens of them, all playing at once.
Eden—her real self. Laughing over coffee, voice trembling as she tested punchlines. Pacing in her apartment, notebook in hand. Mumbling through jokes to him over the phone. Crying between sets.
Then: Marc.
Onstage.
Telling the jokes. Her jokes. Every clip louder, smoother, cleaner. Each version of him more confident than the last.
And each time, Eden faded. A little more drained. A little less visible.
Marc stumbled into the aisle. "No. No, that's not how it was. We riffed. We shared. That's how comedy works!"
His voice echoed back from the mouths of the dead:
"That's how comedy works..."
The screen changed again.
A script.
Neatly printed. His name across the top in bright red ink.
"MARC DUNLEY – WORKING SET (Post-Eden)"
Stage-Marc turned toward it, arms wide in grand showmanship.
"Here it is. Your survival kit. Every borrowed line. Every laugh she earned. Repackaged. Reclaimed. Retold."
"Stop," Marc whispered. "I was trying to survive. I didn't know what else to do."
"You didn't stop when she fell," echoed his own voice. "You just stepped around the wreckage."
The spotlight dimmed.
The screen glowed on, showing only the title of his script.
Then—pages began to fall.
Drifting down from the rafters like ash from a fire. One landed in his hand.
He read the line:
"My friend once said vulnerability is sexy. Then she had a breakdown. Real commitment to the bit."
His breath caught.
He dropped the page.
Another fell at his feet. Another fluttered across his shoulder.
A snowfall of shame.
Every joke. Every hit. Every line that filled theaters.
Written in someone else's pain.
He looked up.
The projection stepped forward, plucking a page from the air. He read it like scripture:
"You ever watch someone break and think—God, that's good material?"
The corpses applauded.
A slow, cracking sound. Bones snapping in rhythm.
"SHUT UP!" Marc roared. "I made it my own! That's what comics do! We transform pain!"
"But not your pain."
The projection's smile never faltered.
Marc fell to his knees.
The pages circled him now, an avalanche of guilt. He grabbed a fistful, then another—ripping, tearing, but they kept falling.
"I didn't mean to steal her," he said, voice small. "I didn't mean to erase her."
"But you did."
He looked up.
The projection was gone.
In its place stood Eden.
Or something shaped like her. Pale and quiet, eyes unreadable. She didn't smile. She didn't cry.
She held out a silver lighter.
Simple. Familiar.
The one she always fidgeted with backstage.
Marc hesitated.
"I can't take it back," he whispered.
"No," the figure said. "But you can stop hiding behind it."
He took the lighter.
Held it to the pages.
Click.
Flame.
The paper caught instantly, curling at the edges like dry leaves. The fire moved fast, crawling up the script, hungrily devouring the words.
The corpses didn't move. But the room shifted.
Something lifted.
Marc stood, watching the flames consume what he'd built. Not laughing. Not crying.
Just watching.
And when the last page turned to ash, the screen flickered off.
The curtain behind him opened—quietly.
And beyond it: a hallway.
Real. Solid. Waiting.
Marc stepped through, the lighter still in his hand.
Behind him, the theater went dark.