He froze. He had never told her his name.

Together, they walked to the red curtain. Anselm pushed it aside. The theatre inside was empty, dark, and dusty. But as the woman crossed the threshold, the chandelier flickered to life. The seats filled with ghostly figures in old-fashioned coats. On stage, a young actress spoke: “For you there’s rosemary and rue.”

She leaned closer, and her fog-colored shawl seemed to drift like smoke. “You think Eintusan is about the ticket. It’s not. It’s about the granting . You have the power, not the paper. So I’m asking you. Not as a box office clerk. As the man who has stood at every threshold but crossed none.”