Glitter, Guards, and Ghosts

Seraphina felt as though the recording booth's white, impersonal walls were pressing in on her. She looked through the thick, soundproof glass as her producer Marcus made a forceful gesture, his mouth articulating words she knew by heart but couldn't hear. More vitality. Make a sale. With your voice, smile. He gave his pricey watch a tap. In actuality, time was money.

Let's take it from the bridge once more, Sera. And keep in mind that we require that expansive, epic vibe. "Consider stadiums," Marcus's voice, surgically clear and cold, crackled over her headphones.

Seraphina adjusted the headphones over her ears and nodded. She squared her shoulders and inhaled. A confection of synth pads and pre-programmed beats designed for maximum radio appeal, the backing track swelled. The lines about empowerment and living freely felt like ashes on her tongue as she opened her mouth and began to sing. Her voice, blended and electronically polished, filled the booth like a flawless, commercially viable product. The 21-year-old woman, however, felt on the inside like a ghost energizing a dazzling machine.

This studio was only one node in the strictly regulated network that made up her existence, which was housed in a private, high-security complex in Burbank. Every moment felt stage-managed, from the carefully manicured social media accounts run by a staff she hardly knew to the paparazzi photos that always seemed to show her "candidly" drinking the brand-sponsored iced tea.

The song came to an end. There was a brief hum of silence before Marcus's voice could be heard again. "Much better, actually. Perhaps a little glitter is still missing. Let's add that final chorus.

The intercom buzzed before she could respond. "Marcus, Jannice is here to sync the schedule."

Marcus let out a loud sigh. "All right, folks, give it five minutes. Keep yourself hydrated, Seraphina. He stopped the feed.

The abrupt silence was nearly overwhelming as Seraphina removed the headphones. She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned against the cool glass. Glow. They had always desired that. The cage has more glitter.

Janice, wearing a razor-sharp pantsuit and exuding brisk efficiency, stepped through the door of the booth, which hissed open. In her hand, her tablet was already awake. Janice was the creator of the Seraphina™ brand in addition to being her manager.

"Good session?" Janice inquired, looking around Seraphina for any indications of weariness or disapproval.

Seraphina answered, "Productive," the evasive term a well-honed defense.

"Great. Alright, a little summary. Gala for charity Tuesday: crisp 7 a.m. photographs, quick statements, and departure by 9:15 p.m. Talking points have been uploaded to your secure drive for the fragrance launch press conference on Wednesday. Flight to New York on Thursday, appearance on the morning show on Friday. Before the Tokyo leg begins, Saturday is set aside for recuperation. Every appointment was a block in the wall around Seraphina's life as Janice navigated through the calendar on her tablet.

"All right," Seraphina whispered. "Janice, I was wondering if I may go to that small antique bookshop in Silver Lake at some point. Only for one hour? On one of her occasional detours, she had driven past it, and it appeared beautifully messy and authentic.

Janice tapped her pen against the screen and scowled a little. "Silver Lake? Honey, it doesn't exactly fit the style of the current campaign. On short notice, security logistics might be challenging. Perhaps next month we might arrange a carefully planned shopping trip to the Grove? Fantastic photo opportunities.

"All right. Photo opportunities Seraphina didn't shove. Pushing only resulted in passive-aggressive memos about brand consistency and worried calls to the label chiefs. It was simpler to simply float.

It was a quiet and easy journey back to her simple hilltop residence. Liam, her usual security detail, was seated in the back of a black SUV with tinted windows, a stoic man who spoke primarily by nods. Outside, Los Angeles stretched out in a blurry vista of palm trees, billboards selling unnecessary items, and never-ending traffic jams. Instead of living in a metropolis, it was more like watching a movie about one.

With its glass walls, infinity pool, and tastefully decorated white rooms picked by a high-end interior designer, her home was breathtaking. It had the appearance and feel of a magazine spread. The buzz of the cutting-edge air conditioner was the only sound to disturb the quiet as she strolled into the spacious living area. The polished concrete floors echoed with her footfall. Ghosts of normalcy appeared to float at the corners of her vision, conjuring images of laughter echoing here, people lounging on a cozy sofa (which didn't exist), and the aroma of real home cooking (the industrial-grade kitchen was mostly unaltered).

With the intention of making tea, she headed to the kitchen. Rows of identical, expertly placed designer tea boxes were visible when she unlocked a sleek cabinet. Selecting one felt more like picking a prop than a personal choice. She browsed her official Instagram page on her phone while the water heated in a high-tech, silent kettle. She was there, looking effortlessly stylish while strolling down a street (a pap stroll organized by Janice's team), chatting with other celebs (written banter at an awards presentation), and beaming brightly aboard a yacht (a photo session). millions of likes. She has received thousands of comments describing herself as ideal, inspirational, and living the dream. It was like staring at a complete stranger whose face just so happened to be hers.

She navigated to a fan page that included older, grainier photos from her infancy before the machine had totally taken over. A photo of her, about sixteen, carrying a crappy acoustic guitar and smiling uncomfortably with braces. Something real, something that felt lost now, flickered in those eyes. Sharp and sudden, a sensation of deep loneliness swept over her. Admired by millions, but completely isolated.

She later reclined in her huge, empty bed after taking a shower and changing into silk pajamas that seemed more like a costume than a comfortable one. These days, it was difficult to fall asleep. In the silent darkness, the strain, the never-ending performance, and the meaninglessness of it all had a tendency to recur. Janice occasionally got a doctor to write a modest prescription, but tonight she refused. Something else was what she desired. an escape that wasn't authorized by the industry or chemically induced.

She eventually succumbed to weariness. But something different happened instead of the usual anxious replays of the day or restless emptiness.

The changeover was smooth yet final. Her bedroom's chilly, conditioned air disappeared, to be replaced by damp, soft air that carried the sea's unique, saline smell. The soft, repetitive sigh of waves lapping onto sand filled the quiet, which wasn't empty. It was an incredibly serene sound, completely out of place in her normal surroundings.

Her viewpoint differed from her own. She appeared to be staring down at hands clutching a thick piece of textured paper as though she were seeing it through someone else's eyes. The hands were smudged with black grit, not groomed. With assured, skilled strokes, a piece of charcoal slid over the page, catching the shape of something with lines that seemed to form magically. The hull of a boat? Wood that has weathered?

An deep sense of focus, a silent absorption that felt very personal, was present. Perhaps it was the faint, far-off smell of fish clinging to the air, but she could almost smell the charcoal's pungent, earthy scent. No pressure, no guards, no bling. The sound of the water, the rough paper, the steady hand, and a deep sensation of concentration. Compared to her carefully planned waking existence, it felt more substantial and real.

Who were the owners of these hands? Where was this soft beach?

Slowly, like a surface from deep, quiet water, Seraphina awoke from the dream. Through her bedroom's floor-to-ceiling windows, sunlight poured in, the blue sky already starting to lose its brightness due to the LA smog. The dream's recollection was still clear, including the focused quiet, the scratching sound, and the salty air. She experienced a peculiar, lingering sensation of tranquility, a peaceful resonance that puzzled her despite the strangeness and inexplicability of it. Somewhere far away beside the sea, in the sleeping mind of a stranger, she experienced the most genuine feeling she had felt in months.