Curtains Up

Chapter 1: No Room for You

You have tried again.

Another day of walking through town with a folder full of resumes, another string of polite rejections. The sun was hot, the sidewalks cracked, and every door you knocked on seemed to echo the same answer: “Sorry, we’re not hiring.”

By the time they got home, your shoulders sagged with exhaustion. Your mother greeted You at the door with a soft smile and a plate of warm food. She didn’t ask how it went. She didn’t need to.

“Eat,” she said gently. “You’ll feel better.”

You sat at the small kitchen table, the plastic fan humming in the corner. The plate held a generous serving of stewed chicken—tender, falling off the bone—nestled beside a mound of creamy mashed yam. A drizzle of golden gravy pooled at the edges, soaking into the soft folds. There were slices of fried plantain too, caramelized and sweet, their edges crisped just enough to crackle between the teeth.

The smell was comforting. Familiar. Like home.

You took a bite, chewing slowly, letting the warmth settle in your chest. But the comfort didn’t last.

The television flickered in the corner, volume low but clear.

“Authorities urge caution,” the anchor said, voice clipped and serious.

“Several missing persons have yet to be found.

Some were discovered months later—dead.

Be careful.”

Your mother spoke. “Another body was found this morning,” she said, voice calm.

“Missing for three months. Found in pieces. Be careful out there.” You paused mid-bite. The anchor’s eyes didn’t blink. The warning echoed in your head.

You swallowed hard, tried to shake it off.

That’s just life, you told yourself. Everything’s going to be fine.

Later that night, You bathed, brushed your teeth, and crawled into bed. The sheets felt colder than usual. The silence stretched. Outside, the wind rustled faintly through the trees. You fell asleep.

The morning light was pale and quiet.

You sat at the kitchen table, chewing slowly on a piece of toast your mother had made. It was buttered just right—soft in the middle, crisp at the edges—but your appetite had vanished. The news from last night still echoed in your head. Missing people. Found dead. Be careful.

Your mother placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Try again today,” she said gently. “You might get lucky.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. You dressed quickly, grabbed your folder of resumes, and headed out.

At the center of town stood the new supermarket. It had opened just last week, all glossy windows and pastel signage. FreshMart, the sign read, in bubbly letters that looked like they belonged on a toy box.

You stepped inside.

The air was cold.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the aisles. Shelves were fully stocked—cereal, canned goods, snacks—but no one was shopping. No carts rattling. No children whining. Just silence.

Behind the counter stood a single cashier.

They wore a pale blue uniform and a plastic smile. Their eyes didn’t quite meet Your’s.

“Hi,” You said, approaching slowly. “Are you hiring?”

The cashier tilted their head. Their neck creaked.

“No more room,” they said. “No more work.”

The words felt wrong. Rehearsed. Like a line from a play.

You blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

You turned away, heart sinking, and wandered through the aisles. Something was off. The shelves were too neat. The air too still. The music playing overhead was cheerful, but warped—like a cassette left in the sun.

Then you saw it.

Tucked between boxes of cereal and jars of jam, sitting alone on a shelf that should’ve held paper towels. A game cartridge. Pastel pink. A cartoon neighborhood. A golden star.

No price tag. No barcode. Just a sticker in looping cursive:

Game name: The Star Next Door.

You reached out, fingers brushing the plastic.

The lights flickered.

The cashier turned their head—slowly, too slowly—and smiled wider.

You walked back to the counter, unsure why their hands were trembling.

“I’d like to buy this,” you said.

The cashier didn’t take their eyes off You. Not once.

“Do you live alone?” they asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“Do you sleep well?”

“Do you dream often?”