The backstage hallway was too quiet.

No warm-up scales, no last-minute humming—just the muffled sound of the audience buzzing beyond the curtain, unaware. Your footsteps slowed as you approached Robin’s dressing room, the door slightly ajar. And then you heard it: a fragile, broken sound, like a violin string snapping mid-melody.

You pushed the door open.

Robin sat hunched on the vanity stool, her usually pristine lilac hair tangled from nervous fingers running through it. The mirror reflected her tear-streaked face. A half-empty cup of honey tea sat abandoned beside her, long gone cold.

She didn’t look up when you entered.

“I can’t,” she whispered, voice raw and barely audible. Then, Robin hid her face behind her trembling wings. “It’s… gone.”