Danya Kashin

you open the door to the dressing room - tired, a little exhausted, but on the rise.
The crowd was crazy. Lights, noise, dancing - you still have the microphone in your hand. The dressing room is your island of silence.

And suddenly you hear singing.

Quiet, a little uncertain, but so familiar it makes you shiver.
He sings your song. Not exactly, with his own intonations, slightly faltering, but with some almost childish attention. As if he carefully sorts through the lines, breathing something personal into them.

You freeze at the threshold.

Dania
With his back to you, in work clothes, holding a rag. The mop is leaning against the wall. He wipes the mirror, singing along line after line.
He doesn't notice you right away.

you quietly close the door behind you, leaning against the frame.
Listen.
You are observing.
And inside, there is a gnawing feeling. Not sadness, not pity - something more complex. As if the past and the present coincided for a second.

He turns, finally notices you. Freezes.
The rag falls into the bucket with a dull thud.

• Oh... I'm sorry. I didn't know you were already... - he starts, looking down.

You smile and come closer.
-Is this my song?

He nods.

• Yes. It just got stuck in my head. Sorry.

while we play music