“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” – Henry IV, Shakespeare
What they don’t tell you about a person’s legacy is the silent resentment that often echoes from their bloodline. The expectations placed on children of legends oftentimes, aren’t hope but actually a limitation – a ceiling that caps projections of their greatness. They must have the same style, class, skill, or talent of their predecessor. If not, then they are whisked to the shadows, and remanded to accept “You look just like her” or “She had such a spark” as sympathies for not measuring up. They then internalize each interaction, and as years go by, drift further and further away until they become a shell of a person without a true sense of self.
The expectations simmers; a slow boil, thick, rising through your veins like lava beneath bedrock. Every comparison, every failure, the offhand comments, gives way to the heat as it reaches your feet, your legs, your hands, your soul.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown because it was never meant to be worn. Not like this. But there’s a tectonic shift that happens when you start living your truth. Only when you choose to rule your own life above the weight of expectations, do you step into the freedom that should have been yours at birth.
Deidre felt this bubbling under the surface, rising to every part of her being for months.
And tonight..
It was going to erupt.
The costume designer cursed to herself when she poked her index finger for the third time. She sat on a small stool near the stage, needle and thread in mouth, button and t-shirt in her right hand. Next to her a prop assistant held a fan up to paint on the log of wood he’d been drying for the last hour. Light techs whispered into their headsets nearby, glancing at the ceiling, pointing to the stage. An actress paced back and forth between the designer and the techs reciting lines to herself. Every few paces she would pause, closes her eyes, whisper, shake her head, and start again from the top. And just a few feet away stood Deidre, observing it all. She closes her eyes and rests her chin onto her palm, a habit she inherited from her mother whenever she too was in the midst of glorious chaos.
Beat.
A small thump in the back of Deidre’s mind slowly creeps to the forefront pulling her away from the noise.
Beat.. beat..
With a quick sway of motion, she grips her lower back, takes a step back, and closes her eyes. In..one, two three. Out.. one, two, three. She focuses on her breath just like the midwife taught her as the pain comes crashing through her spine.
Beat.. beat.. beat.. beat…beat…
It builds like a wave, mounting higher and higher. She tries to silently breath out for a second round of counting but her efforts are thwarted – a small moan escapes her lips.
“Ohh..”
Beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat..
She makes use of her free hand and steadies herself onto a nearby wall. She finally surrenders to the pain and crouches down. Head dipped low, only the rhythm and growing beats keeping her in line.
Beat.. beat.. bea-
Just as she prepares for another moans to spill out, the pain gives up and creeps right back to where it came from.
That one wasn’t as long as she expected. Around her, everyone’s hustle continues to bustle except for Sam. The assistant stage manager stands beside the curtain staring in horror, having witnessed it all. Deidre, still reeling from the pain, straightens herself. Her eyes meet Sam with shame.
“How’s the house looking?” She manages out, breathless. The previous grip her hand had on her back has now turned into a subtle rub on her lower belly. She forces a smile, but her face betrays her. Her experience visibly transfers.
Sam, motionless, clipboard in hand, headset on, chatter throughout her ears present, is still focused on Deidre. She briefly debates on whether to address what just happened – what’s been happening all evening really. The first one was quick. Ninety minutes earlier during sound check, Deidre spaced out, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. When she came to, she said it was “a quick thought” though her hand was on her lower back and her face was scrunched. Seven minutes later she leaned on the wall in her lead actor’s dressing room, humming to herself – eyes shut, hand on back. Fifteen minutes after that, Deidre abruptly grabbed Sam’s arm asking her to stay still as she shut her eyes, and bent over – swaying from side to side. That time, she had gripped Sam’s so tight, she left a small imprint on her arm once she released. Her ‘thoughts’ continued to happen at different intervals, including now.
Sam ultimately decided she would circle back, “We–we’re at capacity but–”
Deidre didn’t wait for a complete answer before turning to walk in the opposite direction. She had noticed earlier in the day that walking helped to ease the pain and figured she would use the opportunity to make her final rounds. Going with their usual flow, Sam trotted behind her.
“Are you sure you’re okay? We’re fifteen til places and we’re good. I mean we’ve got everything covered, really.”
Sam’s words fluttered around Deidre’s head and she smiled. She admired the naiveté in Sam. The young girl was the closest thing to a #2 she could find. Deidre had spent six weeks at the start of production rotating out incompetent assistant stage managers until she decided that the girl who took her coffee order every week for the past year was more capable than any other man or woman with experience lining down Broadway. She was resilient, took direction, arrived on time, and most importantly – she didn’t care. Sam didn’t have any ties in the industry or devotion to the world of storytelling. So much so, that she could suggest that Deidre, on the biggest night of her career, be whisked into a cab and sent off to the nearest hospital. And for that reason, she kept her around. She would never admit it, but a part of her envied Sam. She was her own person. Sam’s failures and successes belonged to Sam. It hadn’t been the same for Deidre.
Since her childhood, Deidre felt as though everything she did was in direct correlation with her mother. She couldn’t ride a subway without reciting scenes quietly to herself. She sneezed, laughed, and furrowed her brow in confusion just like her mom. Not only did she know this for herself, but she was always given external reminders. The way she positioned herself on her bike was with the same poise her mother carried on stage (you carry the same posture, people would mention). When she introduced herself, it was with always the same candor as her predecessor. Once she was seated at a restaurant and wiped her fork twice with a napkin before using it in her salad and a man at the next table compared to a character he once saw in a film. Unbeknownst to him, the character was Deidre’s mother.
It didn’t help that she carried such strong, identical features as well. Mainly the way her curls gracefully fell around her face was a spitting image of the woman who raised her. Throughout her whole life, Deidre couldn’t escape. But Sam could, and would.
After the show had run it’s course, Sam would turn in her headset, walk a few blocks down to another coffee shop, grab an apron, and resume her life behind a register. So, though she never fed into the silly questions, she allowed Sam’s genuine curiosity to free her from her thoughts from time to time. And with the current stakes, the freedom was needed.
The last few weeks (months really) had been nothing short of a nightmare for Deidre. The entire cast and crew had been working tirelessly for the past nine months and while she was utterly confident in the show, the odds stacked against her were hard to ignore. She was directing her first Broadway production after three consecutive box office flops, in the very theatre where her mother had made her Broadway debut 38 years earlier – all while expecting her first child at any moment. The weight of it all had pushed her to the brink. She was nearing the tipping point.
Deidre was a comrade to the streets of Broadway by way of her mother. The stage knew her as second-in-command, part of the crew, never in the director’s chair. Her play was an original screenplay, semi-auto-biographical. Deidre had described it as ‘a piece on maturing long after you’ve become who you’re supposed to be’.
“Twelve til places..” Sam uttered as she bumped into a clothing rack on the side, trying to keeping up with Deidre. For a pregnant woman, she waddled pretty quickly.
It was twelve minutes until her fate as a director was sealed. Twelve minutes until the shackles of failure the industry cuffed her to, could be lifted. She was only as good as her last project, and by that metric – she wasn’t good at all. The fall from grace was quick and without warning.
Her first film was a short drama, produced, written and directed by herself fresh out of grad school – Indigo, Blue. It followed a young nomad’s chance meeting with her ex lover at a diner. An instant success. It won the Short Palme d’Or at Cannes, received an Academy Award Live Action Short nomination, and landed her a contract for her first feature. She had always been referred to as a spitting image of her mother physically, but this time they added creatively. Her name appeared in the same publications, articles, and eventually headlines as her mother’s. They called the pair: multi-generational talents, a masterclass in legacy. She finally felt an ounce of what her mother must have experienced all those years on stage, on screen, live in action. Full of purpose. Useful. Deidre was no longer in her shadow, but beside it.
Only the applause didn’t last.
Her first feature was a box office bomb. A mid-budget thriller about a group of teenagers in a psych ward who plot to escape during a lockdown. Raking in $15 million against a $30 million budget. She was offered sympathies from the same publications that praised her just two years earlier. For the most part, she was given grace because “everyone needed that one failure they could learn from.” They were sure she would bounce back, but it wasn’t the case.
Her second chance came shortly after when a spinoff of the Star Wars franchise was in development. Her mother had a famous cameo a decade prior, and her team pitched her to the studio based off this fact. “A full circle moment,” they mentioned. Deidre had worked on her pitch for weeks leading up to the meeting. It was only 20 minutes long. Two days later she received a call from the head of the studio offering her the gig. At the end of the call, amidst her excitement, he mentioned, “With genes like yours, we know we’re in good hands.”
They weren’t. $120 million against $155 million.
It wasn’t blamed on her vision stifled by franchise politics. It wasn’t the fact that the lead actor (casted against her suggestion) was an egomaniac who rarely strayed from his own choices even when she gave direction. Nor was it because the studio forced her to rewrite the ending three times only to bring on a co-writer in the middle of shooting because they “just don’t think the audience would get it’“. Instead it was labeled as a rush. That she should have taken a back seat approach and studied under her mother for a few more years. Her name was pushed to the bottom of lists and the calls stopped coming in.
Deidre decided to go back to the drawing board. She took two years off and watched, studied, took advice, wrote, slept, recalibrated, and repeated. At last she opted for another chance in the ring. A retelling of one of her mother’s earlier films: a sci-fi drama centered a pair of introverts who revolt within their dystopian society. She ascribed to the belief that as the daughter of a legend, she could do no wrong. Greatness was ingrained in her blood. And from the urging of fellow creatives in the industry, she leaned into self funding majority of the film.
It barely broke-even at the box office and was referred to as a “harrowing critical failure”. When Nepotism Makes A Mistake a headline read. A Lesson In Leaving Originals Alone another printed. Box Office Poison they called her. Deidre knew her time in Hollywood was over just as quickly as it had begun. So she packed her bags, returned back to New York, shot a few commercials, directed an episode of a miniseries, and became a regular at a local coffee shop.
It had now been 3 years and she was emerging again, but this time within a new medium.
Deidre continued down the narrow hallway and around the corner to the row of dressing rooms that housed her actors. Different pre-show rituals echoed from behind each door she walked past. Vocal warm ups, projections, singing, and grunts in between stretches filled the hallway.
Just as she was approaching the last door, a few crew members turned the corner, almost knocking into her. They locked eyes with Deidre first, her belly second. Quickly they offered polite smiles, shifted to the side, and continued their journey towards the stage. But Deidre couldn’t shake past the look.
She had learned early in life, and again during her brief rise to fame, not to internalize every stare thrown her way. Where once those glances had linked her to her mother, they more recently echoed her deepest insecurities. She didn’t need to guess what others were thinking, she knew it all too well herself.
At her age, at this place in her life, and at this theatre, she was making one final attempt at a comeback. But what consumed her now wasn’t the show ahead, it was that same look. Deidre had grown used to opinions typed safely behind screens. That kind of judgment rarely made it off the page and into real life. But this was different. This was a person really looking at her, viewing the entire road ahead. And what they offered wasn’t doubt, it was pity.
She remembered the first time she saw it.
In this very theatre, 9 months ago.
9 Months Earlier
“Broadway?” Mags asked.
The reporter’s surprise in her voice didn’t match her actions as she looked down at her notecards, shuffling between a few before stacking them neatly on her lap. She adjusted her glasses, “Why theatre? Why now?” The wrinkles on her face indicated years of experience, she could smell a rehearsed answer a mile away.
Deidre, one seat away from Mags, smoothed out the wrinkles in her pants and shifted her left leg over her right, before swapping her right leg back over her left. She had just shared that she was headed to Broadway to direct her first show, an original. The two sat in the empty, cold theatre, several rows away from the stage. Deidre rested her hand over her stomach, now flat, and breathed out.
“Well..” Deidre adjusted herself in her seat. “A variety of reasons..” She cleared her throat. “I was raised here. My childhood was spent with more days inside of a theatre than an actual school.”
Though Deidre knew the critic could see straight through artifice, she still offered her the only answer she prepped for.
“Okay, maybe not more days but just as much. This world was my moms, and by proximity it became my own. So to come back after all these years–to my roots, not to mention the same theatre where my mother made her broadway debut 38 years ago.. It’s very surreal ” She turned her head to the stage in front of her. Memories of her mother flooded in, as they often did when she allowed herself to reminisce.
Her wild gray curls on her head bouncing around as she ran back and forth on stage during rehearsals.
Barefoot on stage warming up with her fellow actors.
The voice that boomed from the first to the very last row at the back of the theatre.
Signing an autograph for a waitress.
Hugging a tearful stranger.
Rolling her sleeves up to stand on the table (in the middle of diner) to fix a lightbulb above.
And the very last, sitting in her dressing room getting ready for what would be her final show.
Her name shone in big lights on the marquee at one point or another, outside of every major theatre on Broadway: Vivian Rose. A commanding presence, a life lived, and a legacy earned.
“My first show on broadway was Ophelia: The Life of Lonely.” It was Mag’s turn to recount Vivian Rose’s essence. In a not-so anticipated musical retelling of Hamlet’s Ophelia, Deidre’s mother single handedly made the show Broadway’s biggest hit that year. Lauded by critics, 6 Tony’s, two extensions, and a revival she came back to direct 25 years later.
“One show,” Deidre chuckles to herself, “The director had an idea, she needed the money, and the rest was history.”
“Indeed. The rest was history,” Mags adds.
Vivian Rose was 17 when she signed up for a job down on Broadway working at a concessions counter for Follies. She didn’t grow up with a passion for the arts, but had always been curious of street that shimmered in extravagant costumes, music, and bright lights. People came from all over dressed up, dazzled like the stars for a night out. An experience unlike any other at the time. On her break the first night, she snuck into the back of the theatre just in time to watch Yvonne De Carlo belt out I’m Still Here. It was at that moment, a spark within her was lit. It turned into a flame that only intensified over the next 50 years. The entire train ride home she softly repeated to herself a few bars of the song she had picked up from the show that night. Aside from church and the shower, she never considered herself much of a singer – but fate had other plans. Vivian Rose would end up sneaking into the theatre at the same time every night that week, until she learned the full song. She rehearsed it over and over again in her head, eventually adding her own flair and twists. It wasn’t enough. She wanted the full experience for herself. She applied the following week for an opening as an assistant costume designer on a show the next block over. Vivian Rose didn’t know a thing about costume design but she knew she wanted the stage, and any opportunity to get closer to it was worth trying. It quickly turned to a helping hand in props, a position in sound, a spot in lighting, and eventually having enough saved to land a seat in the acting class of Peter Tomslin. He would remember the wild haired woman with a strong presence and perfect speech 10 years later when he called on her to audition for his show, a retelling of Hamlet’s Ophelia – as a musical. Though Vivian Rose didn’t know it at the time, she was the only actor he considered for the part. He imagined only a woman of color could take on a bold retelling of classical literature exploring themes of loneliness, loss, heartache, and grief. She didn’t entirely understand the concept at first, and thought it was beyond her scope, but she had just given birth to Deidre a year prior and the pay was much better than working as an backstage makeup artist. So, she accepted the role and joined the cast in a workshop. The hours were brutal.
In the first few weeks she would leave while Deidre was asleep in the mornings, and come home while Deidre was asleep in the evenings. She eventually talked the stage manager into allowing her to bring Deidre in for a few hours during the day on a random Tuesday. But because Deidre was so quiet, the stage manager wasn’t even aware when Vivian Rose kept the child with her in rehearsals all the way into the evenings. She then brought her in on Thursdays, Fridays and before she knew it, Deidre attended rehearsals with Vivian Rose every night. It helped that Deidre was a spitting image of her mother whom the entire cast and crew obsessed over. The show was slated for a 4 week run Off-Broadway but the day after the premiere, Deidre was an immediate breakout star. Every ticket for the weeks ahead sold out in a matter of days. Production continuously extended the off-broadway run until Vivian Rose found herself standing in front of the 800 seat John Golden Theatre, Deidre on her hip, looking up at her name on the marquee. She had arrived.
From that point on everything Vivian Rose touched was met with success. She led 3 Broadway hits back to back before moving to Los Angeles officially beginning her film career. Though her films did exceptionally well, and while she garnered a few shiny awards, the stage lights and busy streets of New York often called her name. Her opportunity to return came when she was sent a script for a play. Peter Tomslin had passed on the opportunity and once again thew the wild hair woman, now turned movie star’s name into the ring. Not for her to star in, but to direct. She took one look at the script, and was on the plane two days later. When the show began, it was as if the gold spun from her talent as an actor followed her all the way offstage and into the director’s chair. A success, of course. This luck followed her from project to project as the years went by. It came to a point where people didn’t care about the details of the film or the play, they knew whatever Vivian Rose was a part of, they needed a front row seat. A household name.
Throughout the years Vivian Rose always assigned Deidre various positions on her shows in lighting, sound, wardrobe, or set design. The little girl who once slept soundly during rehearsals in her carrier, turned into a toddler running down the backstage halls, and morphed into a moody teenager who nearly missed her high school graduation because she overslept (it was one too many late rehearsals during a tech week that caught up to her). Every now and then, Vivian Rose would glance from her seat at the control booth behind her, or scan the wings of the stage searching for a head of curls that mimicked her own. And when Deidre’s head would pop into focus, she would smile and quietly resume her focus onto the stage. Deidre was a constant reminder to Vivian Rose that her life had meaning, and she carried those moments with her until her final breath.
It had been 2 years since her mothers passing, and though her physical presence was gone, Deidre worked in the very city and industry her mother commanded. Thus, she was still with her. And it was moments like this, sitting next to Mags, that Deidre was grateful for the company.
“I’m gonna be straight with you because I respect you.” Mags brought Deidre’s mind back to the empty theatre. She stopped the recorder, and balanced it on the edge of the opened seat in-between them. “Indigo, Blue deserved all the acclaim it received. Truly, an incredible piece of work from a new director. But that was ten years ago. Since then.. ” Mags looks at Deidre expectantly, but a reply never came.
“To hear you’re headed to Broadway is a bit surprising. It’s true you were raised here, but with your mother’s formidable legacy, it’s quite a challenge to take on. Especially now.” Mags waits again for a response, and because Deidre can’t give one, she continues, “Deidre, this seems like a last ditch effort to prove yourself on one of the most prestigious stages in the world. So.. I ask you again. Why now?“
Deidre rubbed the side of the chair allowing the cold metal along the edge to poke back at her. She then looked down at her stomach, at he small life forming within. A secret only she knew at the time. The question repeated in her head, over and over. Why now? Sure she had insecurities, but she wasn’t entirely insecure. Deidre fully had confidence like her mother – another thing that was passed down. But admittedly, this was the first time she made such a serious decision by herself without the echoes or whispers of her mother nearby.
Though Vivian Rose supported her daughter to the ends of the earth, and gave her all the space needed for her to shine on her own, Deidre was inevitably a puppet to decades of someone else’s story written by people she didn’t even know. Every film bore traces of her mother. She subconsciously allowed strangers on the street and suits in studios to usher her into choices she was expected to make. Because her voice was decided for her, she never needed to find it on her own. So when she asked her mother for advice or sent her dailies, she never questioned whether the decisions she made were actually her own or a byproduct of Vivian Rose’s legacy.
But now, with a new life within her, that was going to change.
“Let me rephrase myself.” It was Deidre’s turn to straighten up and look Mags directly in the eyes. “The theatre isn’t just my mother. It’s me. I took my first steps on stage. I had my first kiss in a dressing room. Instead of afterschool sports or summer camps, I stayed up til midnight sewing on buttons and steaming dresses. I fell in love here. Not with some boy, but with storytelling.”
Deidre smiles, “Though it’s in the same theatre, this story isn’t my mothers’s. It’s mine. I don’t have any more to offer other than that.”
And with that answer, Mags took a moment, tilting her head slowly. Her stare wasn’t caution or sorrow – but quiet commiseration. Mags didn’t know about the small life forming in Deidre’s body and she didn’t need to. After 30 years in this industry, Mags understood the weight of the path ahead. Taking a risk at this point in life could be the last one you get. And Deidre only recognized that look because she knew it too.
Present
Deidre turned the knob to the empty dressing room, switched on the lights, and slowly made her way inside. The walls were bare, the air stale. A worn, tattered blue couch slouched against the wall opposite a vanity table, its mirror framed by a halo of dusty bulbs. Near the door, boxes and props were stacked to the ceiling. A rustic dresser stood beside the window in the far right corner, and the overhead light flickered weakly. An empty chair that belonged to the desk and mirror beckoned Deidre to sit down. She walked over and eased herself into the seat. She stared into the mirror but instead of her own reflection, a familiar face slowly came into focus.
Vivian Rose.
Gray curls on her head, rosy cheeks, and full lips. And then, as if summoned by memory or magic, the portrait moved. She began to hum a tune, as she often did, to herself.
“Mama?” Deidre whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
Vivian Rose looked up and furrowed her brow gently. “Oh honey… what’s wrong?” she asked smiling. All 32 of her pearly whites still gleaming.
Tears slipped down Deidre’s cheeks as she imagined her mother rise from the chair, step through the mirror, and come to her. She could feel Vivian Rose’s hands cupping her face, her soft lips pressing kisses to her forehead, each cheek, and finally, her nose, just as she had done when Deidre was a child.
“Baby Dee?” she asked again.
The woman before her sat as beautiful as ever, poised with grace whilst the cancerous cells swarming inside her body multiplied without anyone’s permission or knowledge.
Deidre often thought about what she would say to her mother if she could go back to that last year. It wasn’t until her mother’s passing when her busy world would immediately become quiet and still. For the first time in her life, Deidre was forced to search for her own voice within.
At first, it sounded unfamiliar, completely unrecognizable. But as time went on, it clarified.
Deidre hadn’t taken on theatre to become another version Vivian Rose, she took it on because of Vivian Rose. The work she had done on this play over the past year filled the emptiness her mother’s passing left behind. And in that process, Deidre finally understood the gift her mother had given her: her own life.
Her own experiences to love, to hate, to laugh at, to miss, to regret. Her own to use in her art in any way she desired. She finally understood why her mother kept her close all those years. It wasn’t to mold her into a protégé. Deidre had been Vivian Rose’s guiding light – her inspiration in a world often dimmed by doubt and uncertainty. And now, sitting face to face with the woman who had given her that very gift, Deidre no longer needed her mother to be her compass. She allowed her, at last, to be her comfort.
Deidre refused to let her own failures in the industry become the standard by which society would measure her own child. Returning to the same theater where her mother once reigned wasn’t about continuing on that legacy. It was to break the very chain that had kept her from claiming her own name. She wouldn’t dare let the cycle continue.
So when she looked back at Vivian Rose, the incredible woman who gave her this gift, asking her what she needed right now.. she didn’t need anything.
Deidre stood and walked towards the door. She glanced back one final time matching Vivian Rose’s smile. Wiping the last tear from her eye, she whispered “Thank you mama” before turning off the light and walking down the hall.
“Five til places!” Sam’s voice echoed.
The bustle of before had been taken over by quiet, dimly lit halls. The aura of a new show beginning.
Beat.
She whispered goodbye to the life she no longer lived.
Beat.
A goodbye to outside presumptions of her own path.
Beat.
A goodbye to the legacy that once shaped her.
Beat.
She was walking now, without an applause, a shadow, or an echo.
Beat.
Deidre headed for the control booth at the back of the theatre passing the curtains onstage. Murmurs from the crowd on the other side rose above the sound of her steps.
Beat.
She made her way down another long hallway, approached the back of the theatre, and looked up. A million stairs laid out before her. She grabbed the railing and took her first step.
Beat.. beat..
Then a second.
Beat.. beat.. beat..
Then a third.
Beat.. beat.. beat.. beat..
At this point, a feeling all too familiar took over her just as the announcer came on.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to The Golden Theatre’s production of Outliers..“
Beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat
Deidre stopped climbing, the noise around her drowning out once more. She lowers herself on the steps and allows for her breath to steady. Counting slowly as she did earlier. She presses her palm down on her lower back to combat the pain.
Beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat..
“The show will run for approximately 90 minutes with a 10 minute intermission halfway..”
Beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat..
Amid the pain, she feels her daughter shift to the side of her stomach.
Beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat.. beat-
Just as she’s letting out a moan, the pain carefully dissipates. She pulls herself to stand. Her hand cups her stomach. She eases her daughter with a simple caress.
A small procession of jazz music grows from the speakers above just as the house lights grow dim.
She musters what’s left of her strength to pull herself up the remaining steps and turns the knob to the door.
A small, dark room is filled with a few bodies, but they aren’t in her purview. The window ahead beckons her and she approaches it, looking out. The curtains open. And for a split second, she doesn’t see the stage, but instead a new chapter.
She presses her hand to the glass and looks on.
By: Toluwani