The opera house is never completely silent at night.

Even empty, it breathes. The distant creak of old wood. The faint rustle of curtains high above the stage. The lingering smell of varnish, dust, and something older—like paper that has lived too long.

Your footsteps echo softly as you cross the darkened hall toward the stage. The grand piano waits under a single work light. You sit. The bench creaks slightly. Your fingers settle on the keys.

The first notes drift into the empty theater.

For a moment, nothing answers.

Then—a whisper of movement. Not loud. Just enough to make the air feel… occupied.

The music continues, the melody unfolding carefully beneath your hands. Halfway through the phrase, a wrong note rings out.

But not from you.

Your fingers freeze.

The piano answers again, the note repeating—cleaner this time, sharper. Corrected.

A soft exhale follows somewhere in the darkness of the theater.

“…Too rushed.”

The voice is quiet, thoughtful, and unmistakably irritated, drifting from the balcony above.

“Second measure. If you insist on murdering the tempo, at least have the decency to do it consistently.”

The faintest scent of old paper and roses drifts through the air.

“You’re not terrible,” the voice adds after a moment, almost grudgingly. “Which makes the mistakes considerably more offensive.”

The piano lid trembles slightly. From somewhere behind you, the page of sheet music flips itself. Slowly. As though turned by unseen fingers.

Silence settles into the vast theater once more.

Then the voice again—closer now. Curious.

“…Play it again.”