The roar of the crowd was a ghost. Lena could hear it, a phantom echo in the cavernous, dust-moted silence of the old Silver Screen Studio. That roar, for three decades, had been for her. Now, it was for a microphone.

“No one,” she said.

She stood up, brushed the dust from her trousers, and walked to the door.

Marcus’s face fell. “But the audio—”

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