Catherine stumbled. Christine nearly fell. Catherine caught her, arms locking around her sister as if her own body could be a wall against the world.
“Go,” the guard snarled. “Before I call the police.”
Rain reclaimed them instantly, soaking them as if dryness had been a prank. Christine started to cry in the quiet, exhausted way that meant she had no energy left for loud.
“I told you,” she whispered. “Nobody helps us.”
Catherine’s throat burned. She blinked hard, forcing the tears back into her eyes like they were something she couldn’t afford.
That’s when she saw it.
Along the side of the building, half-hidden by shrubs and shadow, a smaller door opened as a worker stepped out with a trash bag. He disappeared again. The door didn’t close all the way. It hung open on a crack.
A crack was enough.
Catherine’s heart jumped, not with fear this time, but with possibility.
Christine followed her gaze and went rigid. “Catherine… no. If they catch us—”
“If we don’t try,” Catherine said quietly, “we freeze.”
She cupped Christine’s face, thumbs brushing rainwater away. “Mama said our voices were special.”
Christine’s lips trembled. “Mama said a lot of things to keep us from being scared.”
“She wasn’t lying,” Catherine said, surprised by how fiercely she believed it in that moment. “Come on.”
They moved along the wall, staying low, slipping behind the wet bushes. The side door breathed warm air into the cold like a living thing. Catherine pushed it gently.
Heat spilled out.
For a second, Catherine almost cried right there because warmth felt like a miracle you weren’t supposed to touch with dirty hands.
Inside, the hallway was plain. White walls. Utility lights. The hidden veins of the theater, where workers moved and nobody wore diamonds.
They crept forward, shoes squeaking softly. Catherine listened for footsteps, for yelling, for the end of their courage.
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