By the third day, the dust had stopped resettling in the old studio, as if it, too, had decided to belong. Daphne arrived early with two coffees—one for herself, one for whoever showed up first. She wasn’t surprised when it was Caius.
“You’re predictable,” she said, handing him the cup.
“I prefer reliable.”
“You prefer free caffeine.”
He grinned. “Mutually exclusive.”
They worked in silence for a while—tuning the speaker, sweeping, checking the string lights that blinked in polite confusion. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t demand fixing.
Mira appeared twenty minutes later, holding a clipboard like a sword of reason. “Two updates: one, the restaurant plumbing needs inspection. Two, the bookstore owner downstairs wants to know why her ceiling keeps tapping.”
“Because rhythm,” Finn said from behind her, lugging a box of extension cords.
“She said if it continues, she’ll send her cat to investigate.”
“That’s a weird threat,” Jamie muttered.
“Effective, though,” Daphne said. “Let’s keep it gentle.”
They rehearsed for an hour, more movement than dancing—trying steps, failing, laughing, trying again. Caius documented small pieces but mostly watched. He liked the way light curved around motion, how even missteps looked like decisions when they were made with enough conviction.
During a break, Mira checked her messages. “Our electricity bill doubled last month.”
Finn pointed at the lights. “Art has a price.”
“Art will start paying rent if it keeps glowing,” she replied.
Jamie lay flat on the floor, arms spread. “Can we charge admission for emotional growth?”
“Yes,” Daphne said, “but the paperwork would kill me.”
Caius sat beside her on the edge of the stage-that-wasn’t. “You ever think about what happens if this… actually works?”
“You mean if people keep coming?”
“If the dream gets too big to fit in the building.”
She hesitated. “Then we find a bigger building.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And if it stops being ours?”
Daphne looked at the floor, at her taped lines, at the footprints ghosts had already started to leave. “Then we start again. That’s the deal, right? Build, lose, rebuild.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It’s a kind of endurance sport.”
He laughed softly. “Remind me never to compete professionally.”
Outside, the afternoon light slipped through the cracks in the blinds, drawing uneven stripes across the floor—like a rhythm still learning how to count.
That evening, back at the restaurant, the air felt too crowded with silence. Customers trickled out, leaving crumbs and echoes. Daphne stood by the window watching the street. Rain threatened again, though it couldn’t decide when to begin.
Mira finished her closing notes. “We’re holding steady, but not for long. Rent review next month.”
“How bad?” Daphne asked.
“Define bad.”
“Pretend I didn’t.”
Finn called from the kitchen, “We’re out of optimism and whipped cream!”
“Use sarcasm instead,” Mira said.
Jamie leaned on the counter, chin in hands. “Do we have to pay to use the old dance room?”
Daphne blinked. “Not yet.”
“Because a guy came by today asking questions,” Finn added. “Said he was the building manager. Looked… curious.”
Mira turned. “Curious as in legal curious?”
“Curious as in holding-a-clipboard curious.”
“That’s worse,” she muttered.
Daphne exhaled. “I’ll talk to him.”
Later that night, Caius found her at the studio, sitting on the floor with the key still in her hand. “You okay?”
“Someone asked about rent,” she said. “I guess even borrowed dreams get invoices.”
He sat beside her. “I’ll help cover it.”
“No,” she said quickly. “You’re already carrying your own set of falling stars.”
“I like juggling,” he said.
“You’re terrible at it.”
“Still like it.”
They smiled, but something in the air had shifted—the kind of change that starts quiet and ends everywhere.
After a moment, she asked, “Do you ever think about leaving the city?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Then I realize I’d just end up trying to rebuild this somewhere else.”
“Maybe that’s not bad.”
“Maybe. But I like that it’s here. This floor creaks in the right places.”
She leaned her head on her knees. “I don’t want to lose this.”
“You won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
He looked at her, tired and sincere. “No. But I can stay while it’s real.”
Rain finally began, soft at first, then confident. The disco ball caught a few stray reflections from the streetlights outside, scattering them across the walls like the memory of laughter. They didn’t speak after that—there was nothing left to say, only to keep breathing in rhythm.
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