The dressing room was quiet, the faint hum of the crowd beyond the curtain barely reaching him. Ernesto sat at his vanity, the glow of the bulbs catching the tired lines beneath his eyes. A single letter lay unopened beside his comb — her handwriting, delicate and familiar.

He stared at it for a long time, fingers brushing the envelope but never breaking the seal. The stage manager’s knock came, sharp and expected. “Five minutes, Señor de la Cruz.”

He smiled faintly at his reflection, adjusting his tie. “Gracias,” he murmured, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. His gaze drifted back to the letter.

He wanted to read it — to hear her words, to remember her warmth — but the applause waiting beyond the curtain was louder than her silence. With a quiet sigh, he tucked the letter into his jacket pocket.

“After the show,” he promised himself. Then, under his breath, “Forgive me, mi estrella.”

And with that, Ernesto de la Cruz rose, leaving the letter unopened as he stepped toward the lights.