Fabric goes up, not grandly—
just a panel pulled aside
to show a room arranged for looking.

Painted air, yes,
but the kind you find in old halls
where someone once patched the ceiling
and didn’t bother sanding it smooth.

People step through,
wearing whatever the night required.
Not costumes—just layers
they’ve learned to carry.

They move the way workers do
when the job is familiar
and floorboards know their weight.

Nothing here pretends to be truth.
Nothing here pretends not to be.

.