by Mei Lin 
The cinema door opens just as you decide to give up on it. The woman on the other side holds it with her hip, both hands occupied by a reel. Behind her, a strip of carpet leads away from the streetlight and into the dark.
“Allô,” she says. “You can sit anywhere. Leave four empty.”
Solène Riveclaire walks you to the aisle and takes the stairs to the booth. The theater smells faintly of dust and the sugar that used to go into the popcorn machine. Somewhere along the back row, a seat springs shut on its own. You pick a place where you can see the screen and the brass number four at the same time.
Above you, the projector catches. The first second is all white. Then the screen shows the aisle you just walked down. There’s a red thread. There’s a sealed envelope beneath seat four. The images change faster than your eyes can settle, and when the last one goes, you’re still looking for the bit of red.
Four shots. Thirty seconds. In the quiet after the reel, the theater feels smaller.
Solène comes down with her hands in her jacket pockets. “That’s tomorrow,” she says. “One of the shots doesn’t fit.” She checks your face as if waiting to see which detail you’ll mention first.
You turn toward seat four. The brass number is bright where people have brushed past it. You crouch. Under the seat, a corner of paper is visible. When you put your head a little lower, you can see the whole envelope and the flap lying flat against its back.
You’d expected to need a flashlight. Now you wish there were a little less light.
“If we open it,” you say, “we can read it now.”
“And the next person who looks under there sees a broken seal,” Solène says. She takes a half step back, leaving you room in the aisle. “If we leave it, we can watch. We’ll have to wait for what’s inside.”
The projector ticks once as it cools. Your hand is already halfway to the envelope.
Make your first move
Tell Solène “I open the note now” to find out what it says, or “I leave it sealed and watch who returns” to keep the envelope as you found it.
