The day Lorelei's parents died, she had been shopping.
She was browsing the racks of the local Ross, looking for black tops, pants, and anything dark that would help her blend into the crowd at the club. It's customary for photographers and videographers to wear black, which wasn't exactly difficult for her. After all, half of her wardrobe was black. But she'd just gotten her new camera lens and was going to test it out that night, and for a night as special as that one, she wanted a new outfit to match.
Her brother, Lucas, was scheduled to play an acoustic set. It wasn't his first time playing, but it was the first after self-releasing his album titled "Within". It was a debut EP that only had four songs, meant to be the introduction to his work, and served as the beginning of a story that he'd already told her many times. He was a natural storyteller, well-versed in the art of tragedies due to his love for Shakespeare (and their family's lineage tracing back to their thirteenth great-grandfather being William Shakespeare's first cousin). However, Lucas's story was a tragedy about the current music industry, and his EP was reflective of the beginning of his own dreams—his desire for someone, anyone, to love his work. He'd always said that if just one person was touched or changed by his music, that was good enough for him. And Lorelei knew it would, so she wanted to capture it all—his journey and passion.
So she spent far too long that morning among the racks in Ross until her phone rang.
She didn't remember much after that. She didn't know what had happened to the clothes she was holding, or the iced coffee she'd just gotten before walking into the store. Her keys were suddenly turning the ignition of her old Nissan, and the road was a blur all the way to the hospital, where Lucas was sitting.
He was in the waiting area of the emergency room, his elbows on his knees, running his hands through his hair. And when he looked up at her, she just knew.
It had been a head-on collision with a semi-truck. The doctors said their parents were killed on impact, but it didn't soften the blow. They were seventeen and nineteen and still felt like orphans, leaving them with a half-empty house and a business they only half knew how to run. But it was their parents' dream, and so Lucas put aside his own to keep their parents alive in the only way he knew how.
So they sold their childhood home. They rented the small, long-empty apartment above their parents' club and lived off the money from the house sale. They took over their parents' business and spent months learning a new rhythm. Lorelei did what she could, but Lucas was a natural at maintaining some normalcy. He paid their bills, bought the groceries, and cheered loud enough for three people when she walked across the stage in a cap and gown, accepting her diploma from the superintendent of her school with a forced smile. Because she knew Lucas's cheering and smiling would turn into sobs that she could hear through the thin walls of their old apartment at midnight. Every once in a while, his muffled noises still crept under the crack in her bedroom door. Only, these days, they'd been laced with the effects of too much liquor and too much thinking.
He hadn't been particularly fond of Lorelei attending Willow's show. When she told him, he'd tried to hide the face he made, but she knew him better than that. She always noticed how he looked at his phone screen, studying Instagram reels and TikTok videos of Willow during their rise to fame. He watched the videos just long enough for Lorelei to turn and see his brow slightly furrowed, eyes narrow, as though he were in pain. But she didn't have to watch his subtle expressions to know he was hurting. It wasn't about Willow as much as it was about a life in music, an opportunity he'd wanted more than anything. But he'd given up all of it to keep their parents' dream alive instead—to keep themselves afloat when the waters rose too high. So she'd broken the news to him gently that night—that Lacey got two tickets to Willow's sold-out, final show of their tour—and said she wouldn't go if he didn't want her to. But Lucas was never one to admit his feelings. So he'd smiled and assured her he saw no reason why she shouldn't go, sending her out the door with a small amount of cash to enjoy her evening.
But the broken bottles littering the floor when she came in this morning told a different story, and when Lorelei woke to her black locks obscuring her vision, a thin guitar riff was coming from Lucas's room.
It'd been the first time in weeks that she'd heard him play.
Dusty slats cradled the afternoon light. Remnants of last night lay tangled in her mind, heavy and insistent. So she remained unmoving, staring up at the cracked ceiling until reality took shape around her.
With effort, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, the faded carpet rough against her bare feet. Her phone blinked an angry 1:07 from the cluttered desk across the room. She dragged herself over to it, bumping against stacks of photography books and equipment, some used more often as furniture than for art these days.
Outside her room, she found the living room mostly as they'd left it, only the floor was spotless, as if last night had never happened at all. Lucas's posters drooped from the walls, a maze of cables and recording equipment snaking over every surface. The coffee table struggled under the weight of empty takeout containers and a forgotten trash bag. She wondered briefly when the last time they saw it clear was. A beat-up couch doubled as Lucas's makeshift studio corner and bed when he didn't make it to his own. He insisted it was perfect for his late-night sessions, but she'd lost count of the times she'd found him slumped over in it, asleep with a guitar still strapped to his chest.
She made her way through to the kitchen, part of the same small room, and yanked open the fridge. An armada of beer bottles, some full, some very much not, was the first thing to greet her. She dug past them to unearth a carton of eggs and a block of cheese, depositing both on the counter as she hunted for bread. The quiet persistence of her headache drowned out everything but thoughts of the guy back in the alley—his hollow eyes, the sharp angles of his face, how he seemed to fold into himself even as they carried him away.
Could it have truly been him, Echo, Willow's vocalist? People at the concert had spoken of so many things that Lorelei's head spun trying to remember all of their words, attempting to recall some clue. But the one thing all the gossipers had in common was trying to justify why Echo and the band chose to mask themselves.
The eggs slipped from her grip, one cracking open and leaking across the counter. She wiped up the mess, forcing herself to concentrate on breakfast. She had to stop seeing him so vividly, the thought settling like a stone in her stomach.
"I think it's kind of obvious he's depressed."
One of the girls in the crowd had said it. And the guy in the alley, he was crying. But he was beaten up, as if he'd gotten in a fight, and who would get in a fight with Echo? And why? And who was he apologizing to?
"They don't know what it's like to make something that close to the bone, to put your heart into creating something only to have strangers tear it apart."
Lacey's words repeated again. It was something that stuck with Lorelei, because it was something she could understand all too well—all the job rejections she'd received for film and photography. She loved Club Seven, she always would. And, like Lucas, she refused to let their parents' dreams die with them. But, unlike Lucas, she hadn't let her own dreams die just yet.
She hadn't gone to college. All she had under her belt were several years of apprentice work under a local filmmaker who went bankrupt after his first short indie film. It was a hard, over-saturated industry, no different than any creative industry. No different than music. But every night, she filmed and photographed hopefuls and wannabes who gave their all at Club Seven to crowds of less than twenty. And, like them, hardly anyone watched her films, either.
She pulled out her phone, flipping through clips of the concert as she waited for the pan on the stove to heat up. She could already visualize how she was going to edit them, combine them into a short video, and add one of the songs that Willow had played—Reprieve. The lyrics had stuck out to her the most of all the songs, and played in her mind even now:
I know that whatever drives you, defines you, feels like nothing but a curse that haunts you. But that spark in your heart—don't let it die.
"You're up early."
Lucas's voice broke through. Lorelei jumped, dropping her phone.
"Late, actually," she mumbled, leaning down to pick up the phone. She turned her back to him and focused on resuming her task, cutting uneven slices of cheese. Her movements were jerky, distracted, and she could feel him watching.
"So," Lucas said, drawing out the word like a guitar string. "I waited up for you for a while. Why'd you get back so late?"
Lorelei felt a sharp twist in her chest. "It was crowded," she said finally. "And wet. And—" she struggled to find the right words, her own head too full of everything she wasn't saying. "Just... took a while to get out, that's all. Do you want anything?"
Lucas leaned against the doorway, his hair a tangled mess, looking more rested than he should for someone who'd left the club past 1 AM. "Nah, I'm good." He shifted his weight. There was something almost cautious in his voice now, like he was waiting for her to slip up and reveal whatever she was hiding. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you waited at their bus like the crazies."
The toaster spat up the bread, and one slice landed with a dull thud on the floor. Lorelei crouched to pick it up, her face turned away. "Ah, well, you know Lacey," she said.
He gave a low chuckle, pushing off from the wall. "Yeah, I do. Any backstage passes, then? Meet the band?" He sounded casual, but Lorelei heard the edge beneath it. He was trying to seem uninterested, just making conversation, but she knew better.
She flipped the egg, a bit harder than necessary. The yolk broke and spilled out into the pan. She frowned. "No, of course not." She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to look at him. His face was lined with the kind of exhaustion that settled deeper than sleep could fix. The memory of him passed out on the couch and the news headline from early that morning returned to her mind.
"You must be tired," she said finally, her voice softer. "Long night at the club?"
He pushed off the doorway and walked toward her, closing the distance she wanted to keep. "Longer than you think," he said. He tossed down an orange paper on the countertop.
"What's this?" she said, but her question was met with silence, so her eyes met his. He watched her with an unflinching gaze, so she stared back down at the paper, picking it up and unfolding it. It was a letter—a long letter—and within spoke of things Lorelei didn't quite understand—legal jargon that provided ultimatums and time frames and words that were long and formal. But the one thing she could understand from it: they were about to lose what they'd been fighting so hard to keep—Club Seven.
She set the letter down and turned off the stove, trying to find her voice. She plated her food in silence. When she finally spoke, it was a whisper against the weight of their reality.
"We'll figure something out."
"With what, Lor?" His laugh was bitter. "A miracle?"
Her eyes followed his hands as he arranged a stack of bills, each another layer to the chaos she wished she could escape. They fanned out across the coffee table, an uneven, angry collection of urgent demands.
"We've got nothing left in reserve," he said, voice tight with exhaustion. "Not for payroll, not even for rent. Nothing."
She chewed her lip, running through possibilities in her mind.
"Maybe," she started, the words hesitant, "maybe we should just take out a loan, try to buy the building."
The suggestion was senseless and desperate, she knew even as she spoke it. She watched the change in Lucas's face, a quick, sharp shift from disbelief to anger.
"In the middle of downtown Atlanta? You can't be serious." His voice rose, and she flinched at its force. "Are you that ignorant of reality? That oblivious?" He grabbed a stack of overdue notices and tossed them onto the table, the sharp sound of paper meeting wood.
She turned her face away, but his words stuck, needles burrowing under her skin. She let her breakfast grow cold and fidgeted with a loose thread on the couch cushion, pulling at it until it unraveled. The movement was compulsive, an attempt to find order in the unraveling.
"You think the world is like a damn movie," Lucas said. "But it's not, and we can't just shoot a different ending."
"I know that," Lorelei snapped, more to herself than to him.
Lucas scoffed, and the sound cut her deeper than she'd like to admit. "Do you?" he said. "We're drowning, Lor. And you're making it worse with your fantasies."
She drew back. "What fantasies?"
"Carrying that camera around, viewing your entire life through a lens, as if everything else around you doesn't exist."
"I work hard," she protested, louder than she intended. Her fingers tightened around the loose thread until it cut into her skin. "You don't know how much I do."
"I know exactly how much you do," Lucas said. "You think promoting the club with videos alone will save us?" He ran his hands through his hair, a gesture of frustration so familiar it felt like a script he'd lived a hundred times before. "You're always talking about what you want, about your dreams, like they matter more than keeping everything afloat."
She shook her head, the movement sharp and quick. "That's not true. I'm trying to help. Just because it's not the way you wanted—"
"You think I wanted this?" he interrupted, his voice raw. "I didn't. I never did. But I'm not the one playing pretend while everything crumbles. I'm the one giving up everything to pick up the pieces like always."
His words struck with familiar precision, and she felt them lodge deep inside.
"I'm not playing pretend," Lorelei said, a tremor in her voice. "You just act like you're the only one who cares about Mom and Dad's dream because you gave up on your own."
Lorelei regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. She felt the flame catch, too big to contain. She met his gaze, but his eyes were locked on the letter.
"You know what?" he said, his voice breaking. "Forget it." He pulled back, the sudden absence of his anger leaving a hollow space. "I'll figure something out."
The anger in her chest collapsed, leaving only its brittle remains. She wanted to say something, anything, to bridge the distance growing wider with every second. But the words stuck in her throat, silent, unfinished.
"Lucas, wait," she tried, but he was already rising from the couch.
He gathered some of the papers, leaving the eviction notice where it lay. "I've got things to do before we open tonight," he said, already halfway to the door. But then he paused, just long enough for Lorelei to think he might say something else, something that didn't cut as deep. But he didn't.
The door closed with a decisive click, and Lorelei sat in the silence that followed. The weight of his words pinned her to the too-soft couch, an oppressive force she couldn't escape, and she thought she might scream to fill the empty space. All she could see was everything Lucas left behind—bills, demands, evidence of how deep they were in. The sight of it fueled the panic, each piece a reminder of how powerless she was to fix any of it.
In her mind, she saw the club dark and silent, its doors locked for good. Their apartment empty and cold, echoes of failure in every room. Her camera forgotten, his guitar and his music equipment sitting in some pawn shop, their dreams as lost as their parents'.
The sense of loss deepened, her thoughts spiraling with worst-case scenarios, a chaotic whirl she couldn't stop. But something else called to her in that moment, another uncertainty wrapped in the events of last night.
She glanced at her camera bag in the corner of the room, the memory of the alley sharp and bright. The mask was still hidden there, looming as large as the rest of her fears. But she needed to feel grounded, in control of something when everything else was crumbling around her. So she left her cold food on the cluttered coffee table and hurried to her bag, where the black and blue monarch mask was hiding. She hoisted the strap over her shoulder and grabbed her keys from the dish on the counter, slamming the apartment door behind her.