Chapter 24: “The Preview Room”

Los Angeles – November 1998

The studio screening room smelled faintly of fresh leather, old carpet, and the subtle pressure of money. The walls were lined with dark acoustic panels. The lights dimmed to a respectful hush. A reel clicked into place. The projector began to hum.

This was the moment.

Weeks of rewrites. Two months of shooting. Years—decades, really, of dreams.

And now Left Behind, in its raw but complete form, was about to be seen by the people who could decide its future.

Rishi Malhotra sat quietly in the back row, his heart steady but alert. Beside him, John Hughes leaned forward with arms crossed, his expression unreadable. A few seats over, the studio’s internal team had taken their places—about a dozen executives, some mid-level, others higher up the food chain.

The youngest in the room was a woman named Harper Lang, not long out of film school but already making waves for her sharp instincts. She was the only one with a notepad full of handwritten praise rather than complaints.

She had a feeling about this movie. A weird, warm, sticky feeling in her chest that reminded her of her first VHS tapes as a kid: The Parent Trap, Willy Wonka, and that strange little animated short where nothing bad happened and yet she cried anyway.

By the third scene of Left Behind, she was already smiling.

Back in the hallway outside, two much smaller figures crept toward the screening door, holding their breath.

Ayaan and Zoey had snuck into the lot by hiding in the grips’ van. Now, tucked behind a low bench beneath the coat rack, they listened through the heavy wooden door, pressing their ears to a thin seam between panels.

“We’re not supposed to be here,” Ayaan whispered.

Zoey rolled her eyes. “Of course, we’re not. That’s why it’s exciting.”

He tried to laugh, but his stomach twisted.

“What if they hate it?” he asked.

“They won’t.”

“What if they do?”

Zoey considered. “Then we rewrite it again. Or we can make a better one. That’s what artists do.”

Ayaan looked down at his shoelaces. He nodded slowly. “Still scary, though.”

They sat in silence as muffled lines drifted through the wall: dialogue, music cues, a burst of laughter, the clack of a notebook being shut. One laugh, loud and real, echoed for a beat too long.

“That sounded good,” Zoey said.

Ayaan smiled, unsure.

Inside, the lights slowly came up. Silence lingered for a moment. Then, a studio exec in a navy suit cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, tapping his pen against his notebook, “I didn’t expect to like it. But I did.”

Several heads nodded. A few others gave polite shrugs.

Harper Lang leaned forward. “It’s charming. Sincere. It doesn’t talk down to the kids, and it doesn’t pander to the adults. It has balance.”

“It needs polish,” another added. “The music’s still temp. The sound mix is rough.”

“Sure,” Hughes said. “It’s a rough cut.”

“But the bones are solid,” Harper added. “It’s got rewatch value. Holiday energy. The kind of film families rent every year.”

Another executive chimed in, “Do we know who the kids are? They’re fantastic.”

“No names yet,” Rishi replied quickly.

A pause.

“Well, you might want to think about that,” someone said. “People are going to want to know.”

Rishi didn’t answer. He simply collected his notepad, nodded his thanks, and left the room as the buzz of conversation picked up.

In the hallway, he found Zoey and Ayaan frozen in place—half-panicked, half-hopeful.

“How long have you two been out here?”

“Not long,” Zoey said too quickly.

Rishi raised an eyebrow.

“Okay… we heard everything,” Ayaan admitted.

Rishi knelt in front of them. “So? How do you feel?”

Zoey shrugged. “Better than before.”

Ayaan looked at his dad. “They liked it.”

“They did,” Rishi said. “But more importantly, you liked it. Right?”

Both kids nodded.

Hours Later – Back at the House

The team had scattered after the preview. But in the warmth of their temporary rental house, the kids stayed up late, sketching.

“Do you think everyone liked it?” Ayaan asked, still unsure.

Zoey looked up from her pencil. “They didn’t clap, but they didn’t leave.”

Ayaan nodded. “Good enough for now.”

She passed him a folded piece of paper.

It was a hand-drawn storyboard frame: Dev standing with his back to the camera, looking at a rising sun. Underneath, she’d written, Keep Going.

Ayaan smiled. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something he’d been hiding since the previous week—a small embroidered handkerchief with her name stitched in careful Hindi script.

She blinked. “You did this?”

“I’ve been practising,” he said. “Rishi says stories are made of words. Might as well learn more of them.”

Zoey clutched it, for once too moved to say anything sarcastic.

“Then that’s what matters most.”

That night, the early whispers began.

Someone leaked the news: Left Behind had a private screening. One studio exec called it “the next holiday sleeper.” The Hollywood Reporter mentioned a “brilliant, mysterious young cast.”

By the weekend, even major outlets were circling. The Washington Post, The New York Times, and Entertainment Weekly. Headlines varied:

• “A Christmas Surprise in the Making?”

• “Who Are the Kids Behind the Curtain?”

Still, no names were revealed. The photo from earlier reappeared in one local gossip column—but with both faces artfully blurred.

Rishi called in favours. He postponed all interview requests. Locked down the final post-production space and tightened security again. Tutors began visiting the house regularly to keep Ayaan and Zoey on track with their schoolwork.

The world outside buzzed like a kettle building to a scream.

Inside their house, Rishi kept the lid on tight.

Meanwhile…

Half a world away, a woman stepped off a military charter flight at JFK.

She wore dark aviators and a tan jacket that had seen sun, rain, and sand. Her boots hit the ground with purpose, but her expression was unreadable. No entourage, no greetings. Just a carry-on bag and a folded piece of paper in her pocket.

At the arrivals terminal, she flagged down a yellow cab.

“Los Angeles,” she said to the driver, voice hoarse from disuse. “As fast as you can take me.”

The driver blinked. “That’s a long ride, lady.”

She handed him a military-issue envelope. Cash. Enough to make the conversation end.

“I’m not here for small talk.”

The cab pulled out into traffic, tail lights glowing red in the snowy dusk. She leaned back against the seat and, for the first time in days, let her eyes close.

The folded photo inside her pocket—of a little girl in a denim jacket, laughing beside a boy at a film set—pressed against her heart like a forgotten wound.

End of Chapter 24

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