The auditorium smells like dust and desperation and my own anxiety sweat.

I've arrived thirty minutes early, because of course I have. The projection booth is pristine, Metropolis already threaded and ready, my grandfather's notes on the film's restoration history arranged in neat stacks should anyone actually care enough to read them.

They won't.

But hope is a disease, and I'm terminal.

I've set up five chairs in a semi-circle facing the screen. Five. The magic number that stands between survival and extinction. Felix promised he'd bring people, but Felix also seems like the kind of person who promises things with that devastating smile and then gets distracted by something shiny.

My glasses slip down my nose. I push them up, hating the familiar gesture, hating that my hands are shaking.

It's just a film screening, I tell myself. You've done this a hundred times.

But Grandpa Arthur was always here before. His presence in the booth behind me, the soft sound of his breathing, the way he'd squeeze my shoulder during his favorite scenes.

Now there's just his jacket on the hook, and me, and the crushing weight of being the last person who gives a shit about any of this.

The door crashes open at exactly 3:47 PM.

Felix Zhang enters like a natural disaster—all noise and movement and that cedar-orange scent that somehow reaches me even from across the room. He's wearing a faded hoodie that says "Wok This Way" with a picture of a wok with legs, which is so aggressively stupid I almost smile.

Almost.

Behind him trail three people who look like they'd rather be literally anywhere else.

"Margot!" Felix's voice echoes through the empty auditorium. "I brought bodies! Living ones!"

I descend from the booth, forcing my face into something approximating neutrality. "I can see that."

The first person is a tall Black guy with an undercut and a basketball jersey, scrolling through his phone with the glazed expression of the deeply bored. He looks up long enough to give me a chin nod.

"Danny Park," Felix says, slinging an arm around the guy's shoulders. "Best friend, point guard, and my plus-one to this cultural experience. I promised him my sister's homemade dumplings for a month."

"Shrimp and pork," Danny clarifies, not looking up from his phone. "I have standards."

The second person is a short Indian girl with purple streaks in her black hair, wearing a Criterion Collection t-shirt and carrying an actual camera bag. She's studying the projection booth with obvious interest, and something in my chest unclenches slightly.

"Priya Kapoor," the girl says before Felix can introduce her, extending a hand. "Aspiring filmmaker, current film studies nerd, and I'm actually here by choice. I've been trying to get into this club for two years but you're never in your office during the posted hours."

I shake her hand, thrown. "I... don't have an office."

"The drama teacher told me you did."

"Mrs. Chen hates me. She wants the projection equipment."

"Ah." Priya grins. "Enemy of my enemy and all that. She told me my experimental shorts were 'aggressively pretentious.'"

"Were they?"

"Extremely. But also good."

I decide I might not hate her.

The third person is a slight Asian girl with long black hair partially covering her face, wearing an oversized cardigan and clutching a worn paperback. She hasn't looked up once, and I recognize a kindred spirit in that deliberate invisibility.

"Yuki Tanaka," Felix says, his voice gentler. "Transfer student from California. Doesn't talk much, but I caught her reading Haruki Murakami in the library and figured anyone who voluntarily reads that much melancholy might appreciate silent films."

Yuki glances up briefly, meets my eyes, and gives the smallest nod before returning her attention to her book.

Fair enough.

I count them again, just to be sure. Felix. Danny. Priya. Yuki.

Four.

Plus me makes five.

The exact number Principal Hayes demanded.

Something dangerous blooms in my chest—something that feels uncomfortably like hope.

"Okay," I say, hating how my voice wavers. "Okay. Welcome to the Classic Film Appreciation Club. We're screening Metropolis today, Fritz Lang's 1927 masterpiece about—"

"Sexy robots and class warfare?" Priya interrupts. "I'm in."

"It's not about sexy robots—"

"There's definitely a sexy robot," Felix says. "I googled it last night."

Of course he did.

I push my glasses up. "The Maschinenmensch is a complex symbol of technological anxiety and the male gaze's objectification of—"

"Sexy. Robot." Felix grins at me, and god help me, there's a dimple. An actual dimple. "It's okay to admit that 1920s Germany was horny, Margot."

Danny snorts. Priya laughs outright. Even Yuki's mouth twitches.

I feel heat creeping up my neck. "Can we please just watch the film?"

"She's blushing," Felix stage-whispers to the others. "I made the film historian blush with robot facts."

"I'm not—" I stop, because arguing will only make it worse. "Seats. Now. The film is two and a half hours, and if anyone talks during it, you're out."

"Harsh," Danny mutters, but he's already folding himself into a chair.

Priya takes the seat closest to the aisle, camera bag at her feet. Yuki settles in the back corner, book still in hand like a security blanket. Felix drops into the seat directly in front of me, then thinks better of it and moves to sit beside me instead.

Too close.

Way too close.

The cedar-orange scent is overwhelming at this distance, mixing with something else—laundry detergent, maybe, and underneath that, something warm that might just be his skin.

My pulse kicks up for no good reason.

"Is this okay?" he asks, and there's something genuine in the question, like he actually cares about the answer.

"Fine," I manage, standing abruptly. "I need to start the projection."

I flee to the booth before he can respond.

---

The film begins in silence, as it should.

The opening titles flicker across the screen in German expressionist glory, all sharp angles and dramatic shadows. The score swells through the auditorium's ancient speakers—Gottfried Huppertz's original composition, because I'm not a barbarian who would screen this with the wrong music.

For the first fifteen minutes, it's perfect.

The workers descending into the depths. The gleaming towers of the wealthy. The visual metaphor so heavy-handed it's almost beautiful. I watch from the booth, my grandfather's notes clutched in my hands, and let myself believe that this might actually work.

Then Felix starts talking.

"Okay but why are they walking like that?" His voice carries. "Is it supposed to be robotic? Are they already robots? Is everyone robots?"

"Dude, shut up," Danny says, but he's laughing.

"I'm just saying, the choreography is very—" Felix makes a jerky walking motion I can see even from the booth. "Very synchronized swimming energy."

Priya giggles.

My jaw clenches so hard I might crack a tooth.

I storm down from the booth. "Felix."

He turns, that grin already forming. "Margot."

"Stop. Talking."

"I'm enhancing the viewing experience."

"You're ruining it."

"Am I though?" He gestures at the others. "Danny's actually watching now instead of checking Instagram. That's basically a miracle."

"Hey," Danny protests, but doesn't deny it.

I cross my arms. "The rule is silence during screenings. It's always been the rule."

"Yeah, and how'd that work out for your membership numbers?"

The words land like a slap.

Felix's expression shifts immediately. "Shit. Margot, I didn't mean—"

"Just watch the film," I say, my voice flat. "In silence. Like it's meant to be experienced."

I return to the booth and restart the reel from where we left off.

For another ten minutes, there's blessed quiet.

Then:

"Is that the dad? Why does he look like a villain? Oh my god, is the dad the villain? That's so obvious. Margot, is it supposed to be obvious?"

I grip the edge of the projection table.

"The Tower of Babel metaphor is very on the nose," Priya adds. "Like, we get it, Fritz. Hubris bad."

"But the visuals are insane," Felix says, and there's genuine awe in his voice. "How did they even film this? It's 1927. They didn't have CGI. They didn't have—what's the thing called? Green screen?"

"Practical effects," Priya says. "Miniatures and forced perspective mostly. The Schüfftan process for some of it."

"That's so cool. Margot, did you know about this?"

Of course I know about this. I have seventeen books about this. My grandfather wrote a whole essay about this.

But before I can respond, Danny chimes in: "Okay, I actually have a question. Why is everyone so dramatic? Like, every gesture is—" He throws his arm up in an exaggerated swoon. "Is that a silent film thing?"

"It's an expressionist thing," I say from the booth, unable to stop myself. "The acting style was meant to convey emotion without words. It's heightened because it has to be readable from the back row of a theater."

"So it's like... theatrical on purpose?"

"Exactly."

"Huh." Danny actually sounds interested. "That's kind of cool, actually."

The conversation continues, and I realize with growing horror that I've lost control entirely.

They're talking over the film. Asking questions. Making jokes. Felix does a running commentary on the robot's creation that has everyone laughing, including—god help me—me. When the Maschinenmensch comes to life, he gasps so dramatically that Yuki actually looks up from her book to smile.

This is everything my grandfather would have hated.

The sanctity of cinema, he always said. The purity of the viewing experience. The respect owed to the artists who created these masterpieces.

But.

But.

Everyone is engaged. Danny has put his phone away entirely. Priya is taking notes. Yuki is watching the screen more than her book. And Felix—

Felix is watching with the same intensity he brought to The General, but now he's sharing it, pulling the others in with his enthusiasm and his questions and his absolute refusal to sit quietly in the dark.

When the climactic flood scene begins, he stands up.

"No. No way. How did they—Margot, how many people are in this shot?"

I abandon the booth and come to stand beside him, looking at the screen where hundreds of extras flee the rising water.

"Over thirty thousand," I say quietly. "The production nearly bankrupted UFA studios."

"That's insane." He's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "That's absolutely insane. And they're all real people? In real water?"

"Real people. Real water. Several injuries. One death, though that's disputed."

"Jesus." He glances at me, and his eyes are bright with something I can't name. "This is incredible. This is actually incredible."

My heart does something complicated in my chest.

The film reaches its famous conclusion—HEAD and HANDS need a HEART to mediate—and I wait for Felix to mock it. The message is about as subtle as a brick. My grandfather always defended it as earnest rather than naive, but I've never been entirely convinced.

Felix is quiet for a long moment.

Then: "I mean, they're not wrong though."

"What?"

He gestures at the screen, where the final reconciliation plays out. "About needing heart. About... connection being the thing that bridges all the other gaps. It's cheesy, but it's true, right?"

Something in my throat tightens.

The credits roll. The lights come up. I stand there blinking in the sudden brightness, feeling exposed and off-balance.

Priya is the first to speak. "That was amazing. When's the next one?"

"Next week," I say automatically. "Same time. We're doing—"

"Wait." Danny stretches, joints popping. "Before we plan the next thing, can we talk about what we just watched? Because I have thoughts."

"We don't really do discussion," I say. "The films speak for themselves."

"But that's the fun part," Priya protests. "Talking about the themes and the techniques and—"

"The sexy robots," Felix adds.

"The sexy robots," she agrees, grinning.

I shake my head. "My grandfather always said that discussion dilutes the impact. That cinema should be experienced in pure—"

"Your grandfather isn't here."

Yuki's voice is so quiet I almost miss it. But everyone else falls silent, turning to look at her. She's still in her corner seat, book closed now, her hair falling over half her face.

"I'm sorry," she says, even quieter. "That was rude. I just mean... he's not here, and we are, and maybe we need something different than what he needed."

The words hit me like a punch to the solar plexus.

Because she's right.

Grandpa Arthur isn't here. He's been gone for two years, and clinging to his exact vision of what this club should be has left me alone in an empty auditorium, screening films for ghosts.

These people—these chaotic, irreverent, living people—are here.

They stayed through the whole film. They engaged with it, even if not in the way I'd planned. They're coming back.

If I let them.

I push my glasses up, buying time to think.

"One hour," I hear myself say. "After each screening, we can discuss for one hour. But during the film itself—"

"Silence," Felix says solemnly. "We'll be good. Scout's honor."

"You were never a Boy Scout."

"How do you know?"

"Because you would have mentioned it seventeen times already."

His laugh echoes through the auditorium, warm and genuine, and despite everything, I smile.

"Okay," Danny says, standing and stretching again. "I gotta bounce. Practice in twenty. But same time next week?"

"Same time," I confirm.

He heads for the door, then pauses. "Hey, Margot? This was actually pretty cool. Don't tell Felix I said that."

"I heard that!" Felix calls after him.

Priya gathers her camera bag. "I'm going to do some research on the Schüfftan process. Maybe I can adapt it for my next project. Thanks for this."

She leaves with a wave.

Yuki approaches slowly, still clutching her book. Up close, I can see it's Kafka on the Shore. Definitely melancholy.

"Thank you," she says. "For letting me be quiet."

Then she's gone too, slipping out like a shadow.

Which leaves me and Felix in the empty auditorium, the projection booth light still glowing behind us.

"So," he says. "That went well, right?"

I should agree. I should thank him for bringing people. I should be professional and grateful and normal.

Instead, I say: "You can't keep disrupting the screenings."

His smile fades slightly. "I wasn't trying to disrupt. I was trying to engage."

"It's disrespectful."

"To who? The dead director? Or to your idea of what this club is supposed to be?"

"Both. Neither. I don't—" I stop, frustrated. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

He's standing too close again, and I can smell cedar and orange and underneath it all, something that makes my skin feel too tight.

"This club is all I have left of him," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them. "My grandfather. He taught me everything about film, about why it matters, about how to watch and what to look for. And when he died, everyone else left, and I've been trying to keep it exactly the way he would have wanted, because if I change it, if I let it become something else, then—"

My voice breaks.

Felix's expression softens into something that makes my chest ache. "Then you lose him all over again."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"Margot." He says my name like it matters. "What if changing it doesn't mean losing him? What if it means keeping him alive in a different way?"

"That's easy for you to say. You didn't—" I stop, shaking my head. "Never mind."

"I didn't what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

But he's not going to let it go. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he's leaning in like he does when he's actually listening.

"You didn't watch your person disappear," I say finally. "Piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a jacket on a hook and a room full of films that nobody else cares about."

The silence stretches between us.

Then Felix says, quietly: "My Nǎinai—my grandmother—has dementia."

I look up sharply.

"She's forgetting Mandarin," he continues. "Forgetting the stories she used to tell me when I was little. Some days she doesn't know who I am. And I can't—" His voice roughens. "I can't stop it. I can't fix it. I can just watch her disappear, piece by piece, exactly like you said."

"Felix—"

"So yeah, maybe I do understand a little bit about trying to hold onto someone who's already gone." He meets my eyes. "And maybe that's why I think changing this club doesn't mean betraying him. Maybe it means honoring what he gave you by sharing it with other people. By letting it grow."

I want to argue. I want to retreat behind a film quote, something witty and deflective that will end this conversation before it cracks me open completely.

But I'm so tired of being alone.

"I don't know how to do that," I admit. "I don't know how to let people in without—"

"Without them leaving?"

The words hang in the air between us, too honest, too raw.

I nod.

Felix reaches out slowly, giving me time to move away. When I don't, his hand settles on my shoulder—warm and solid and real.

"Then I guess we'll have to prove you wrong," he says. "Week by week. Film by film."

His hand is still on my shoulder. His cedar-orange scent is everywhere. My heart is racing so fast I'm sure he can hear it.

This is dangerous.

This is everything I've been avoiding for three years.

This is—

"Okay," I whisper.

His smile could power the whole auditorium.

"Okay," he echoes. "So. Next week. What are we watching?"

I force myself to step back, to put distance between us, to breathe air that doesn't taste like citrus and cedar and possibility.

"City Lights," I say. "Chaplin. 1931. The greatest love story ever filmed."

"Sounds perfect."

He heads toward the door, then pauses—exactly like he did that first day. "Hey, Margot?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For letting us ruin your perfectly silent screening." The grin is back, devastating and warm. "Same time next week?"

"Same time."

He leaves, and I'm alone again in the auditorium.

But it feels different now.

The chairs are slightly askew from where people sat. There's a forgotten pen on the floor—Priya's, probably. The air still smells like Felix's cologne mixed with the dust and old velvet.

Evidence of life. Of people. Of something that might actually survive.

I climb back to the booth and carefully rewind Metropolis, my hands steady on the familiar mechanism. Grandpa Arthur's notes are still on the table, his handwriting precise and careful.

The heart mediates between the head and the hands, he wrote in the margin. Lang understood that intellect and labor need emotion to bridge them. Cinema at its finest shows us this truth.

I trace the words with my finger.

"I'm trying, Grandpa," I whisper to the empty booth. "I'm trying to let them in."

The jacket hangs on its hook, silent and still.

But for the first time in two years, I think maybe that's okay.

Maybe the dead don't need me to keep everything frozen in amber.

Maybe the living do.

I pack up my things, turn off the lights, and head for the door.

My phone buzzes as I'm locking up.

Unknown number: This is Felix. Danny gave me your number. Hope that's okay. Just wanted to say thanks again for today. Also I googled more about Metropolis and did you know there are like 5 different versions because the original cut was lost??? That's insane. Anyway. See you Monday. - FZ

I stare at the message for a long moment.

Then, before I can overthink it, I type back: The restoration history is complicated. I have books about it if you're interested.

The response comes almost immediately: I'm interested in everything you want to tell me about.

My face flushes hot.

I shove my phone in my bag and walk quickly toward the parking lot, my heart doing something acrobatic and terrifying in my chest.

Four weeks to save the club.

One week until the next screening.

And Felix Zhang's number in my phone, making everything feel possible and dangerous and alive.

I touch my grandmother's pearls at my ears—my talisman against vulnerability, against hope, against wanting things that can disappear.

But my fingers are trembling.

And I'm smiling.

And I'm absolutely, completely screwed.