The After-Image of Applause

The velvet curtains hold their breath, heavy with the salt of a thousand gazes. Dust motes drift in the ghost-light's amber, suspended in the hollow where the thunder lived.

The floorboards remember the weight of the king, the frantic pacing of the jilted bride. Now they only creak for the wind that slips through the cracks in the rafters.

Empty seats are rows of stone-faced watchers, waiting for a cue that will not come. The air is thick with the smell of old greasepaint and the lingering shiver of a final bow.