Chapter 35
AMY
When I pull into the back parking lot, the usual roar of crews and camera motors is gone.
Headlights carve pale yellow pools on the asphalt.
The studio looms, silent and waiting. Darun steps beside me in the damp air, his eyes catching each shadowed doorway.
He rubs at his coat—still new, stiff—and I wonder if it’s beginning to break in him, mold to his shape.
I lead him to the rear entrance. The door unlocks with a sharp hiss.
Inside, we walk into muted stillness. The air tastes of cold concrete and cleaning solvent, a familiar smell I’ve missed without ever thinking to notice.
The corridors are dark, machines idle, cables dangling like vines.
The hum of air vents is the only living thing.
I press my fingers to the wall, tracing along the cable conduits. “This is the behind-the-scenes you never saw,” I say quietly. He nods, like he already senses everything hidden beneath the facade.
We round a corner. A control room window. My hand rests lightly on the glass. Inside, monitors sleep—black screens and dark consoles. He steps close, breath fogging the glass. “Feels like stepping into a dormant beast,” he murmurs. I rest my palm over his. “One that’s going to roar again.”
We push through into the main studio. The stage is cavernous in the dark.
The scent of polished aluminum, velvet curtains, twisted cables, and heavy curtains lingers.
I reach out and switch on one rig light.
The stage floods in pale white. Cameras snap into place overhead, tracks hum alive.
The echo of that activation sends tremors through me—and through Darun.
He squints, steps forward, eyes flicking from lens to floor, cables to stage edge. “I don’t know where to look first,” he says.
“Here,” I whisper, walking behind him, “is where I stood every night. Where voices reach beyond themselves.” I brush a hand across the stage floor, dust motes swirling in lamplight. The sound is soft—my foot against the floorboard, breath in his ears. “And this is where your voice will matter.”
He turns. Hesitates. Then leans down, picks up a lens cover, rubs finger over the glass. Cool, clear. He holds it to his eye, framing my face. “Like seeing you behind a viewfinder,” he says. I laugh—quiet, raw.
He lowers the lens. “You want me to step into that?” His voice echoes.
“Yes,” I say. “I want you to tell them your truth. Your version. What you saw, what you felt. We can’t just keep speaking from one side. They need you in the lens.”
His chest tightens. His jaw clenches. I see the steel in him adjusting—to vulnerability, to uncertainty. But his eyes blaze. “Then I will,” he says. No hesitation.
Relief spills through me. I step into his arms. The lights hum around us. The shadows retreat. He holds me and I feel half of every fear dissolve.
The next morning, I make him breakfast in the studio’s demo kitchen.
He’s stiff in the new coat I lent him, pulling it off when the stove warms. The smell of eggs and garlic dances between us.
We eat at a utility table under fluorescent lights.
He hums. I laugh. Every clink of cutlery, every spill of coffee grounds, is vivid.
Later, I bring him through the broadcast prep areas. He touches consoles, dials, script racks. “So many voices behind this,” he says softly.
I answer, “It’s the choir you’ll join now.” He nods. We slip into the newsroom studio. The holostations flicker on, the screens alive. The teleprompters scroll. The air thickens.
Walking beside him, I pitch. “Your show. A special segment—‘Truth at the Crossroads.’ We present Kanapa’s fallout, but then we give you the microphone. You speak—the audience hears the machine, not just the anchor. You answer, you reconcile, you reveal.”
His gaze clouds. “You’re asking me to stand in fire.”
I reach to his hand. “I’ll be beside you. You’re not alone.”
He nods, voice low: “Then I will.”
Later that day, the stage calls. We suit up—wire mics, cameras, lights. I watch him adjust his mic strap, hesitate, breathe. I stand behind the camera line. We switch it live. The hum is a roar in my chest. The lights dazzle. The audience feed opens.
I lean into the cue. “Tonight,” I begin, voice steady, “you will hear the story behind the headlines. And for the first time, you’ll hear Darun’s voice.”
I step aside. The stage is his. I watch his lips part, his throat working. The world holds its breath.
When it’s done, we walk off stage. The cameras dim, echoes fade. I step into his arms again. He holds me like I’m ground under his feet, like I’m gravity—but he knows I’m the same. He whispers: “Thank you.”
I whisper back: “Thank you.”
Out in the corridor, his hand tightens around mine. We walk side by side. Sunlight leaks in through windows. The studio smells cleaner, new. The hum feels alive. I feel the weight of every name unsaid. But we’ve crossed a threshold. The light is waking.