I stand just beyond the dim amber light of the sodium lamp above, the gray of my canvas clothes blending dimly into the gray of the surrounding stone. The air itself fades gray with the gentle rain, filling the narrow lane with an atmosphere of thick remembrance. The gentle mist and light dripping of the air's water fall gracefully to the cobbles, running in thin rivulets from the deep red of the roof tiles and down over the stone facade in a slow serpentine dance. The whispers of the warm rain flow smoothly through the thickness to stroke my mind. I let the warm moisture seep into my awareness, and slowly walk to the lone door. Paint, the color of grayed blood, struggles to cling still to the heavy wood beneath.

Through the door I stand in the empty lobby of the old theatre, the rich warmth of fabrics and wood somehow discernible in the phantom light, an occasional glint of crystal betraying a memory of extravagance. And the sadness of the emptiness reaches out to brush against me.

Through the second door, and into the spacious intimacy, the gentle fall of the rain above talking quietly to my dreams, its words unknown, but its language understood.

She is like a tired queen, the theatre; still rich, still beautiful, with so many tales to share, yet alone in her grace as the world plays with her children. Crystal sconces shine with a bare remembrance of their light, casting rich velvet shadows along the plush seats and thick carpet.

As I walk slowly down the steepness to the stage, it comes. The sound. A sweet, haunting song, slow and mournful yet soothing and gentle, drawn silkily out of the rich wood of the cello. She sits below, in the faint circle of light gazing from the sconce behind her. Her music surrounds me, filling the hall with its whisper. The black of her gown flows like her music over her form, sensual and reserved.

Behind the haunting melody forms a rich and flowing harmony. The men who play it sit far below, facing the now empty stage, and none are aware of the stranger among them. I listen to the flow of the music, and look upon the mistress whom it obeys.

As her music softens, so does she. She fades before me, not growing darker, but less real. The line of the seat and pattern of the wall showing through her. With the subtle crescendo of her music she again enters fully into my reality. It is the music which holds her here. Do she or it exist without my mind to know them or am I what brings them back again into this reality?

At the last, it is only she again, her slow mournful notes hanging sensually in the air like the sent of remembered jasmine. And the final note fades, not ending but slowly ceasing to be. As the last of her fades into the gentle caress of the rain upon the roof, I see the crystal glisten of the tear which slides slowly from her eye to her lover's smile.