Zara Kegg spends her nights in the projection booth of a fading seaside theater, running old black-and-white monster movies for whoever still shows up. It’s a good place to hide—especially after her mother’s death, with her father drifting further out of reach. Up there in the dark, with the hum of the projector and the flicker of the screen, she doesn’t have to explain anything.

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Then Zachary Taylor walks in.

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His clothes don’t match. His stories don’t always add up. But something about him feels familiar, and before long, Zara finds herself paying closer attention than she means to.

What begins as something like a love story turns into something harder to name. They circle what isn’t being said, sometimes getting close, sometimes missing it entirely. What’s on the surface isn’t always what’s there.