When he opened his eyes, he was back in the empty theatre, tears on his face. The screen was dark. But his hands—his hands were tapping the ticket counter. Dhinandhorum.

Elango tugged his sleeve. "Fix them, Appa. Play."

He walked closer. The white surface rippled like water. A young woman appeared on screen, dressed in a green pattu pavadai. His breath caught. It was Elango, age twelve—the same age she’d been when she died. She was smiling, clapping her hands in perfect rhythm.