The auditorium smells like dust and disappointment.

I'm intimately familiar with both.

I thread the film through the projector with practiced hands, my grandfather's hands, careful not to let my fingers tremble. The celluloid whispers against the reels—a sound I've loved since I was seven years old, sitting in this same room while Grandpa Arthur showed me how silent films could speak louder than anything with sound.

"We didn't need dialogue," he'd said, his voice warm as peppermint. "We had faces."

I adjust my glasses and scan the empty seats.

Twenty-three rows. Two hundred and seventy-six chairs. Zero people.

"All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up," I mutter to no one, because quoting Norma Desmond when you're completely alone isn't pathetic at all.

The thing about classic cinema is that it never leaves you. People do—mothers who decide their daughter isn't worth staying for, grandfathers whose hearts give out while you're at a debate tournament, club members who graduate and promise to visit but never do—but Buster Keaton will always jump onto that moving train. Cary Grant will always be charming. The films stay.

The films are safe.

I flip the switch. The projector hums to life, casting its cone of light through the darkness like a séance summoning ghosts. The General flickers onto the screen—Keaton's deadpan face, the Confederate locomotive, 1926 in all its glory.

I settle into the front row, my vintage cardigan pulled tight despite the May warmth. The jasmine tea I brought sits cooling in my thermos, mixing with the scent of old books I've been cataloging for the library. My own personal perfume: eau de social isolation.

On screen, Keaton performs impossible stunts with that famous stone face, and I mouth along with the intertitles. I've seen this film forty-seven times. I could run it in my head without the projector.

Sometimes I think I prefer the version in my head. At least there, I'm not sitting alone in the dark, pretending this is a choice.

The door at the back of the auditorium creaks open.

My spine goes rigid.

Footsteps echo down the aisle—confident, unhurried. I don't turn around. If I ignore them, maybe they'll leave. Maybe it's just a janitor, or someone looking for the theater department, or—

"Is this the film club?"

The voice is male, warm, carrying a hint of amusement that immediately sets my teeth on edge. I know that voice. Felix Zhang, senior class vice president, varsity soccer captain, the kind of effortlessly popular that makes my carefully constructed invisibility look like the survival mechanism it is.

I still don't turn around.

"We're in the middle of a screening," I say, keeping my eyes on Buster Keaton's perfect pratfall.

"Oh, sorry." The footsteps don't retreat. They come closer. "Should I come back later, or...?"

"You should probably just leave."

He laughs. Actually laughs, like I've said something charming instead of dismissive. The sound carries—three hallways' worth of carry, I'd estimate. Everything about Felix Zhang carries. His voice. His presence. The cedar-and-orange scent that hits me as he drops into the seat directly behind mine.

Too close. Way too close.

I finally turn, pushing my glasses up my nose. "The seats in the back work just fine."

Even in the projector's dim light, I can see his grin. Tousled black hair, warm brown eyes that crinkle at the corners, the kind of face that makes teachers forget he's turned in exactly zero assignments on time this semester. He's wearing a soccer hoodie and jeans that probably cost more than my entire vintage wardrobe, and he's looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen all day.

I hate it.

"Better view from here," he says, gesturing at the screen with the kind of expansive movement that takes up three seats' worth of space. "Plus, I figured you could explain what's happening. You know, since it's silent."

"That's the point. You're supposed to watch."

"Right. Cool. Watching."

He settles back, and I return my attention to the film, hyperaware of his presence behind me. The heat of another person in this usually empty space. The soft sound of his breathing. The cedar scent that absolutely does not belong in my carefully preserved 1920s sanctuary.

I try to lose myself in the film. Keaton stealing the train, the Union soldiers in pursuit, the perfect choreography of chaos. This is my favorite part—where he sits on the train's coupling, completely oblivious to the danger behind him, and—

Felix laughs.

Not a polite chuckle. A real laugh, surprised and genuine, at the exact moment Keaton's character finally notices the pursuing army and his face remains absolutely deadpan despite the mortal peril.

Something in my chest does a weird flutter thing.

I squash it immediately.

"You need to be quiet," I hiss.

"Sorry, sorry." But he's still grinning. I can hear it in his voice. "It's just—that was actually funny. I wasn't expecting it to be funny."

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know. Boring? Old? My friends said this club was where social lives go to die."

There it is. The truth I'd been waiting for.

I stand, gathering my thermos with sharp movements. "Let me guess. They sent you here as a joke. 'Go join the dead movie club, it'll be hilarious.' Well, congratulations, you've done your dare or whatever. You can leave now."

"Wait—" He stands too, and suddenly he's close, closer than he was sitting down, and I can see the surprise on his face. "That's not—I mean, yeah, they dared me, but—"

"Get out."

"Just let me—"

"Get. Out."

My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. I hate that I care. I hate that for one stupid second, when he laughed at the film, I'd let myself imagine that maybe, possibly, someone else could see what I see in these beautiful, broken old movies.

Felix doesn't move. "What if I want to stay?"

"You don't."

"How do you know?"

"Because nobody wants to stay." The words are out before I can stop them, too honest, too raw. I turn away, busying myself with the projector. "The door's behind you."

Silence.

I wait for the sound of retreating footsteps. For the door to close. For the inevitable return to solitude.

Instead, I hear him settle back into his seat.

"I'm staying," he says quietly. "Just—let me watch. I won't laugh again."

"You can laugh. That's the point. Keaton's a genius of physical comedy, and if you can't appreciate—" I stop myself. "Why are you really here?"

"I told you. Dare."

"And you always do what your friends tell you?"

"Usually, yeah." He shrugs, and even that movement is loose, easy, like he's never doubted his right to take up space. "But also... I kind of want to see what happens. With the train."

I study his face for signs of mockery. Find none.

This is a mistake. He's going to leave, just like everyone else. Just like Mom, who decided a fresh start in Portland was more important than her weird daughter who preferred dead actors to living friends. Just like Grandpa Arthur, who didn't choose to leave but left anyway, taking the only person who ever really understood me.

The club needs five members. I have zero.

Math is not on my side.

"Fine," I say, sitting back down. "But if you pull out your phone, you're gone."

"Deal."

We watch the rest of the film in silence.

But it's a different kind of silence than usual. Charged. Aware. I can feel Felix behind me, his attention on the screen, and I wonder what he's seeing. If he notices the way Keaton never breaks character, never begs for laughs, just commits fully to every impossible stunt. If he understands that this film is about obsession—about loving something so much you'll destroy everything to save it.

When the final reel ends and the house lights come up, I start rewinding the film. My hands know the work. Thread, wind, careful not to crease.

Felix appears beside me. Too close again. I can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell that cedar-and-orange combination that has no business being this distracting.

"That was incredible," he says.

I don't look up. "You don't have to lie."

"I'm not. That stunt where he sat on the coupling? And when he was on top of the train and didn't see the tunnel? I thought he was going to die."

"He did some of his own stunts. Broke his neck filming Sherlock Jr. and didn't realize it until years later."

"That's insane."

"That's dedication." I finish winding the reel, placing it carefully in its canister. "The film mattered more than safety. More than sense."

"Sounds lonely."

My hands still. I finally look at him, and he's closer than I thought, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. They're very brown. Very warm. Very focused on me in a way that makes my pulse stutter.

"I should go," he says, but doesn't move.

"Yeah."

Neither of us moves.

The moment stretches, taut as film through a projector, and I'm suddenly, painfully aware of how small I am compared to him. How he could lean down, just a little, and—

The door bangs open.

We both jump apart like we've been shocked.

Principal Hayes stands in the doorway, her sensible heels clicking against the floor as she approaches. She's wearing her disappointed face, which is only marginally different from her regular face.

"Ms. Reyes. Still here, I see."

"Just finishing up." I straighten my cardigan, hyperaware of Felix standing awkwardly beside the projector.

Hayes' gaze flicks to him, one eyebrow rising. "Mr. Zhang. This is unexpected."

"Just checking out the club," Felix says with that easy charm that probably gets him out of every late assignment and missed practice. "Pretty cool, actually."

"Mmm." Hayes doesn't look convinced. She turns to me, and I know what's coming. I can see it in the set of her shoulders, the professional sympathy in her eyes. "Margot, we need to discuss the club's status."

My stomach drops.

"I know membership is down," I start, but she holds up a hand.

"Membership is nonexistent. You're the only registered member, and school policy requires a minimum of five students for any club to maintain funding and facility access."

"I'm working on recruitment—"

"You've been working on it all semester." Her voice isn't unkind, but it's firm. Final. "I understand this club meant a great deal to your grandfather. Arthur was a wonderful man, and his contribution to this school's film program was invaluable. But we can't justify allocating resources to a club that serves one student."

The words hit like a slap. "So that's it? You're just shutting us down?"

"I'm giving you until the end of the month. Four weeks. If you can recruit four more members—genuine, committed members—the club can continue. If not, the equipment will be transferred to the theater department, and the room will be reassigned."

Four weeks.

Four members.

Impossible.

"That's not enough time—"

"It's more than fair, Margot." Hayes softens slightly. "I know this is difficult. But sometimes we have to let things go. Move forward."

Move forward. Like Grandpa Arthur is something to get over. Like this club is just a hobby instead of the last piece of him I have left. His ProjectionBooth Operator jacket still hangs on the hook by the door. His handwriting is still on the film canisters, labeling each one with care.

If the club dies, he dies all over again.

"I'll get the members," I say, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel.

Hayes nods. "I hope you do." She glances at Felix. "Mr. Zhang, if you're genuinely interested, membership forms are available in the main office."

She leaves, her heels clicking a death march against the floor.

I stand very still, staring at the empty screen. Four weeks. Four members. The math mocks me.

"Hey." Felix's voice is soft. "You okay?"

I laugh, and it comes out sharp enough to cut. "Do I look okay?"

"You look like you could use a drink."

"I don't drink."

"Coffee, then. Or tea. Jasmine, right? That's what you smell like."

The observation catches me off guard. I turn to look at him, and he has the grace to look slightly embarrassed, running a hand through his already messy hair.

"That's not creepy at all," I say.

"Yeah, I heard it as I said it. Sorry." He grins anyway, and damn him, it's disarming. "But seriously. You just got some pretty shit news. Let me buy you tea."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a nice guy?"

"Nobody's that nice. What do you want?"

The grin fades, replaced by something more serious. More real. "Honestly? I don't know yet. But that film was... it was something. And you clearly give a shit about this club. So maybe I want to help."

"You don't even know me."

"So let me get to know you. Over tea. Or coffee. Or we can sit in hostile silence while you glare at me. I'm flexible."

I should say no. I should recognize this for what it is—pity, or boredom, or some elaborate joke I'm not in on yet. Felix Zhang doesn't belong in my world of silent films and vintage cardigans and desperate loneliness dressed up as artistic preference.

But I need four members.

And he stayed through the whole film.

And when he laughs, something in my chest forgets to be afraid.

"Fine," I hear myself say. "But I'm not joining you. You're joining me. There's a difference."

"Noted." He's already heading for the door, moving with that loose-limbed confidence like he's never doubted he belongs anywhere. "There's a place on Maple that does good tea. They have those little sandwich things too."

"I know the place." I gather my things—thermos, bag, the weight of impossible expectations. "And Felix?"

He turns, backlit by the hallway fluorescents, and I steel myself.

"If this is a joke, I'll know. And I'll make sure everyone knows you got rejected by the dead movie club."

His smile softens into something that looks almost genuine. "Fair enough."

I follow him out, pausing only to touch Grandpa Arthur's jacket as I pass.

Four weeks, I think. Four members.

I'm sorry, Grandpa. I'm trying.

The fabric is worn soft under my fingers, smelling faintly of pipe tobacco and peppermint and all the safety I've ever known.

Then I step into the hallway, where Felix is waiting with that ridiculous grin and that cedar-orange scent that has no business making my heart race.

Four weeks to save everything that matters.

Starting with trusting the last person I should.