The stranger cried. Not loudly. Just a single tear tracking down his cheek like an old film scratch.

In the old, refurbished cinema hall by the sea, Nila ran the only 35mm projector left in the district. She loved silent films best—the exaggerated gestures, the title cards, the way emotion had to be translated because sound hadn't been invented yet.

"Can you project a ghost?" he asked.

Nila should have said no. Instead, she said, "I can try."