A long pause. “Sonny,” the voice said, softer now. “That line hasn’t worked for ticket sales since ’96. That was the emergency line. For the stage door.”

His own reflection stared back, gaunt and exhausted. Then he saw it—a smear of lipstick on the glass, a woman’s crimson kiss next to a date: April 14, 1996 .

“I’m sorry,” Leo stammered. “I found this number. My father—he kept a mirror.”

Leo’s throat tightened. “Who am I talking to?”