Cold sunlight glares through the high windows onto the scarred, wooden stage as I walk its length slowly. My old friend the upright just sits there – battered – bruised – silent. No more music. A catch-all now for props from long-abandoned comic skits and love scenes.
Stark shadows punctuate the old, stained backdrop.
My footsteps once brought standing-room only audiences to their feet. Now, they echo across the emptiness.
“Condemned,” the billboard reads! They tear it down tomorrow.
One sob escapes.
I inhale the dust and wonder: does it come from the room … or from my memories?
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