The show ended just past midnight. The four of them spilled out into a damp February street, ears ringing, voices hoarse. They hugged without thinking about it. They promised to do it again next month.

And then, quietly, you’re glad you didn’t know. Because if you had, you might have been too sad to dance.

The date hangs in the air like a half-remembered promise: February 9, 2020. Before the world drew a sharp breath and held it. Before the doors closed.


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