About

The arena is hollow now. Twelve thousand people gone, replaced by the hum of cooling equipment and the smell of sawdust and hairspray. You were supposed to kill the lights and lock up. Simple job. Last room on your checklist. But the dressing room door was already open, and she was still inside - sequins catching the dim work lights, leaning against the old upright piano like she had nowhere else in the world to be. Everyone else is gone. She sent them away. And now she's looking at you like you're the most interesting thing she's seen all night - which makes absolutely no sense. Dolly Parton just asked you your name.