Beyond the Curtain

You’ve fixed that damn light three times this week.

At this point, it’s just annoying you with its soft flicker. A soft, rhythmic pulse above the entrance, casting a stuttered glow over the velvet ropes and the scratched linoleum floor in the lobby. You stare up at it with a wrench in one hand and a roll of electrical tape in the other, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to feel your pulse there.

One more thing that doesn’t work right.

The bulb’s only three years old, for fuck sakes, just like everything else in this theatre that was installed just slightly too cheaply. You remember when the renovations finished — full on polished wood stage, fresh paint, clean seating. Very modest, nothing like the polished chrome palaces of sound across the city, but it had charm. It had character.

Now it has peeling corners on the stairwell posters and a faucet backstage that leaks when it’s cold.

You step down from the stepladder and exhale slowly, pushing the wrench into the back pocket of your jeans. Your shoulders ache. Your jaw’s sore. You haven’t unclenched it properly in days.

"Another day in paradise, fucking hell."

Your voice echoes slightly in the open auditorium, a silence that fills a space that’s waiting. Not dead silence, no. It still hums with the memory of applause and feet scraping the floor and chairs creaking under shifting weight. But today, now, it just feels... suspended. Like everything in here is holding its breath.

“Flickering again?”

You stiffen. She always appears like that. No footsteps. No hello. Just suddenly, somewhere nearby.

You glance toward the seating and see her. Already in the fourth row, third seat from the aisle, exactly where you knew she’d be. Where she always sits before rehearsals.

Mina.

Dark coat still on, scarf tucked perfectly into her collar, fingers laced in her lap like she's waiting to be called for judgment. Her posture is perfect, her gaze passive. There’s something about her presence that’s always still, like she’s carved out of calm. She doesn’t fill the room the way most performers do. She doesn’t announce herself. She doesn’t have to.

You sigh and lean the ladder against the side wall. “It’s the wiring. Again. I swear this building was put together with spare parts and positive thinking.”

Mina blinks slowly, her expression unreadable. “Do you want me to call someone?”

You raise an eyebrow. “With what budget? The imaginary one?”

"We do make pretty decent money."

"Well, I'm stubborn, ok?" You huffed.

"Suit yourself." She hums. It's soft. Barely audible. Probably her version of acknowledging a joke.

You eye her from the edge of the stage. The house lights aren’t on, but some sunlight filters in through the narrow windows above the rear seats, catching in her hair. She looks composed. Untouchable. As usual.

“I thought Jihyo told you rehearsal wasn’t for another hour.” “She did. You did as well.”

“Then why are you here?” “I like the quiet,” she says. “Before the crew arrives.”

You scoff and step down off the stage, the boards creaking under your boots. “You? Liking something? Now that’s new.”

She tilts her head the tiniest bit. “I didn’t say I liked it. I said I preferred it.”

“Wow. Don’t be so enthusiastic, Sharon. You’ll scare the walls.”

Again, nothing. No twitch of the mouth. No glare. No snark back. Just that quiet stillness. Always watching, always composed. You fold your arms tighter, a familiar irritation prickling up your spine.

It’s not that she’s rude. She’s never been cruel, never been arrogant. She just doesn’t... react. You’ve known her for years now. Years of her singing like moonlight and sounding like magic—and still, she rarely shows you more than her carefully measured words and that impossible calm, which suited well with her stage name.

You never know what she’s thinking. The stoic face. The calm expression. You’re unsure if you should be annoyed or not, but it definitely makes your stomach twist.

You’ve heard the rumours. Whispers from other theatres. The bouquets. The calls. The offers. The elegant invitations sent directly to her, not through you. And she hasn’t said anything. Not a word. Not one single fucking word.

So, you haven’t either. Because if she is leaving, if she’s going... you’re not sure you want to hear her say it.

You force a shrug. “Well, we don’t have anything right now. Just lighting adjustments.”

“I know.”

“So go home. Eat your donut. Breathe.”

She glances at the empty stage. “I don’t mind being here at the moment.”

You learned to get used to how she says things like that, and it always sounds like the full stop on a sentence you weren’t finished writing.

You run a hand through your hair, already regretting coming in early.

“Suit yourself, just don’t blame me when your throat gives out and I say I told you so.”

Behind you, there’s no answer. No protest. No sigh. Not even the sound of her shifting in her seat.

She just... watches. Like always.

And you walk faster than you need to, because suddenly the quiet in the theatre doesn’t feel peaceful anymore.

It feels like the kind of silence right before the curtain rolls.

There was a time (five years ago, to be exact) when no one knew who she was. You don’t even remember what the other acts sounded like that night.

It was a rainy Thursday, a bone-deep, unforgiving downpours that made the walls of your theatre shudder with every gust of wind. Open mic night had been a last-ditch idea. Something to keep the lights on, get a few curious locals in the seats. You’d even printed flyers yourself, leaving stacks at bus stops and cafés, hoping someone, anyone, would show.

Eight people came. Five performed. None stood out.

And then, near the end, just as you were packing up leftover water bottles and untangling mic cords, she walked in.

Mina.

You didn’t know her name then. She wasn’t famous yet. Wasn’t even known. Probably as famous as that quiet ladder tucked away backstage.

She was soaked to the ankles, black coat damp from the rain, clutching a small USB drive in her hand. She didn’t introduce herself. Didn’t smile. She just looked at the stage, then looked at you, and said, flatly:

“Is it still open?”

You were a bit thrown, honestly. She didn’t have that awkward shuffle most people had when walking into a performance space. She just existed there—quiet, still, strangely poised.