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the girl takes the stage. she shouldn't, she's the light tech. if anyone walked in, she'd be mortified. but that's not how the story goes. no one will find her today.
the story wants her to sing, and so she does. belts about adulthood and mundanity and domestic dreams.
for a moment, the wall cracks—her eyes flash blue, and for a split second the hatchetfield high theatre is full of people. she sees... beyond the veil, perhaps. peels back the invisible curtain and glimpses the space between actress and audience.
that wasn't meant to happen. the ghost boy should be the only one with blue eyes. the girl doesn't appear to notice, too caught up in her performance.
the boy is watching, too. his lips are curled in a rotten sneer, perfectly fit for the villain he serves in this story. his fingers are primed to curl around the wall, to dim lights and slam doors and scream, angry and wailing, at the humans watching him suffer.
he waits in the wings. he is hungry. but... he is told to wait. because the girl was not meant to see the blue. maybe she would serve better on the other side, as it were. not a villain like the boy. maybe she can be the hero, this time.
countless stories are spun in an instant, possibilities weaved into hesitant existence. a battle between life and death, a story told in the meta-space between the stage and the seats. it won't break the wall—that's too dangerous. perhaps just a peek through the curtain. wouldn't that be revolutionary?
a flash of green from behind the shoulder, whispering disapproval.
nevermind, then.
the ghost boy taunts the girl, and she dies horribly. that's how the story goes.