Twelve years have passed since he’s been on a stage, and yet the worn hardwood underneath him feels as familiar as his own two feet.

He sits looking out into a darkened theather. The sound of a distant orchestra floats out of the pit in subtle exhalations; the underscore of a thousand standing ovations. This is the way the theater breathes – a bittersweet score, background to a bittersweet life.

He squints out into the audience, where the large vaulted ceilings echo back the lost words of those last empassioned soliloquies.

And then he spots the seat. Second row, seventh in from the left.

Through the milky fog of time and words left unspoken, he can see her sitting there, beaming up at him from a world that will be forever lost.

A perfect apparition, hair curling over her ears in a messy bundle, a program clutched between her hands.

But as quickly as she’s come, she’s gone.

And he turns, picks up his things. As the doors fold closed behind him, he swears he can hear her laughing.