No one speaks of what happens after the performance.
After the curtain falls. After the audience disappears.
But something always lingers.
A breath.
A footprint in the dust.
A heartbeat in the walls.
Tonight, the theatre doesn't feel empty.
Tonight, it feels occupied.
By ghosts.
By grief.
By the versions of him that died on stage and refused to stay dead.
He wakes in the front row.
Not the stage. Not backstage. But the audience.
He doesn't remember sitting here.
He doesn't remember sleeping.
The seat beside him is soaked in blood. Not fresh — old, rusted, like the kind you forget is yours. A torn program sits in his lap.
Tonight's Feature: THE HOLLOW THING (Starring: YOU)
He looks around.
The other seats are full.
But they are not people.
They are versions of him.
One is twelve, in a paper crown.
One is older, holding a bottle.
One is Ember — or at least, wears her face.
One is just a hollow outline, stitched with wire.
They all turn to look at him.
None have eyes.
They speak together, the same voice in a thousand mouths:
"We watched you die.
Over and over.
And we applauded."
He tries to run.
The floor grips him like mud.
He's back on stage, but this time he can't stop speaking.
Words pour out like black water:
"I wanted her to stay.
I wanted to become her.
I wanted to burn every version of myself that wasn't beautiful."
He tries to cover his mouth. His hands are made of glass — they crack, and red seeps through the seams.
From above, the audience watches.
They are all him, still.
Still clapping.
"More," they chant.
"More truth. More pain. More shame."
He screams.
Ember stands in the aisle, holding a bouquet of rotten roses.
"Tell them what you did."
He chokes.
"I set the fire."
The theatre gasps.
"I wanted to erase it all. The script. The self. The silence."
The curtains close.
But they're made of skin.
And they bleed.
For the first time in what feels like centuries, he hears a sound from outside the theatre.
A knock.
Three times.
Real.
He stumbles to the exit door. It's warm. Heavy. He opens it with shaking hands.
The hallway beyond is white. Fluorescent. Sterile.
A hospital.
A nurse turns to him.
Gasps.
Drops her clipboard.
"You're— you're not supposed to be awake."
Reality crashes into him like floodwater.
He's in a coma.
Has been for weeks.
A fire broke out during a performance.
He was pulled out half-burned, unconscious, brain swelling from smoke and trauma.
The nurse is speaking, but her voice is warped.
He can't stop seeing Ember's face behind her.
Every light flickers red.
"We thought you were brain-dead," she says.
Maybe I am, he thinks.
He runs. Through hospital halls. Through fire alarms.
Every door leads back to the theatre.
No matter where he runs, he ends up under the stage.
It's cold here.
Not metaphorically. Bone-deep.
A single lightbulb swings from the ceiling.
In the center:
A hospital bed.
On it:
Himself.
Intubated. Wrapped in gauze. Heart monitor silent.
Ember stands beside the bed, holding the axe.
"You're almost free," she whispers.
He drops to his knees.
"Who are you really?"
She crouches.
"I'm the girl you tried to BURY!!."
She presses the axe into his hands.
"But I'm the one who LIVED."
He stands beside the bed.
Looking down at himself.
His fingers tighten around the axe. It pulses with heartbeat.
He turns to Ember.
"Was I ever REAL?"
She kisses him.
"Does it matter?"
The ghosts gather around them.
Applauding.
Screaming.
Crying.
Somewhere far above, the real world is calling.
Machines beeping. Nurses yelling.
"You don't have to go back," Ember says.
"You can stay.
Stay here.
With me.
With the beautiful lie."
He looks at himself.
Then at her.
Then at the stage, waiting for the next scene.
He swings.
The axe falls.
Somewhere in a hospital, a heart monitor flatlines.
Somewhere in a burned theatre, dust begins to rise.
Onstage, a single figure stands.
Wearing both the mask and the wings.
No one knows the name.
But they begin to speak.
"Tonight's performance is called The Death of the Actor."
The seats are empty.
But somewhere, someone is listening.
And that's enough.