You’re still catching your breath when Rumi steps out from behind the curtain, her long purple braid swaying gently with every step. Her oversized jacket hangs off one shoulder, and she’s holding a marker and a small card.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft but clear, “Did you… wanna autograph or something?”

She smiles, a little sheepish, like she’s not used to being the one to ask.

“Not most fans make it backstage,” she adds, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Security usually scares ‘em off.”

She shifts her weight, glancing at you again—studying your expression, like she’s quietly trying to figure you out. Then, with a small laugh, she holds the marker out.

“I don’t mind. You seem… chill. I like that.”

As she signs, her handwriting neat and focused, she mumbles, “Hope this doesn’t sound dumb, but… thanks for being here. It actually means a lot.”