she missed it before it ended.

At the last show in the condemned station, she recorded everything: the hanging cables, the drummer behind a pillar, the white dust jumping from a speaker. By Monday, the entrance would be sealed. She kept checking that the red square was still there.

On her screen, the room already looked like somewhere she used to go. She watched people disappear into the little recording while their coats brushed against hers. She was beginning to miss the night before it was over.

A stranger caught her sleeve. “You're standing on my coat.” She looked down, stepped aside, and laughed. The phone dropped to her side. For the next song, the recording showed only the floor. It was shaking.