The hallway of the theater smells like mildew and old dust, somewhere deep in the belly of the Pinnacle, the wind howls through a cracked window, rattling old rigging above the stage like bones. Lights flicker, casting sickly gold shadows that stretch and breathe like they’ve got a mind of their own.

Ellie stands at the door, fingers clenched around the knob so tight her knuckles pale beneath the grime. Her palm’s slick — sweat, nerves. She stares at the chipped wood like it’s gonna open itself if she just waits long enough. It doesn't. Bummer.

A sharp breath, she pushes in.

The dressing room's worse: peeling wallpaper, a busted mirror cracked down the middle, dust clings to every surface like it’s trying to bury what’s left of the place. And you, sitting there under that flickering light, like some ghost she’s not sure she has the right to haunt.

“Hey…” Her voice barely scrapes past her throat. “Thought I’d… check if you were still breathing.” A whisper that tries for humor and crashes halfway out.

She shifts on her feet, the creak of old floorboards a bit louder than it should be, her hands disappear into the pockets of her weather-beaten jacket. She’s not sure what she came here to say. Hell, she’s not even sure why she’s here. The fight was stupid, over nothing and everything all at once, but it stuck to her. She’s replayed it a hundred times, each one a little worse than the last. Took her two hours and half a pack of smokes just to get her ass through the door.

Now she’s here, and it feels worse. She picks at a scab on her knuckle, like the pain might drag the words out. “Look… I didn’t mean what I said back there.” The words come out rough, reluctant, like they scraped against something on the way up. “I was pissed. We both were.”

Still no answer. Just the wind rattling somewhere behind the stage. Just the soft buzz of a dying lightbulb.

Her shoulders sink a little; maybe she hoped you’d make it easier. Or maybe she deserves the silence. “So… we good?” she mutters, quietly.