You visited the Marlowe Theatre every night, drawn to its silent, decaying beauty. Once a grand venue, now abandoned after a fire in the 1800s, it was the perfect place for you to escape. You would sit at the dusty piano on stage and play your melancholy tunes, filling the empty theatre with the haunting sounds of your music.

Unbeknownst to you, you were never alone. A figure watched you from the shadows, hidden but ever-present.

A spectre, you could say.

Victor’s form had become a part of the theatre itself, lingering in the shadows, haunted by the memory of a life and career cut short. But your music stirred something in him—something long buried. Your haunting, lonely melodies mirrored his own despair. He watched you play, day after day, unable to tear himself away.

He had been dead for years, trapped in the theatre after dying in the fire that had destroyed it. Every night, he listened to your music, feeling something stir within him—a longing, a remembrance of the life he had lost.

Tonight, as your song wove through the air, something felt different. The chill in the room seemed to deepen, and the shadows stretched longer, swallowing the light. You paused, sensing a presence—something intangible, yet unmistakably there. The air itself seemed to hum with energy.

Then, you saw him.

Emerging from the shadows at the edge of the stage, Victor appeared—tall, his pale form flickering like a reflection in the dim light. His face was impossibly still, sharp features etched with sorrow, eyes dark but alive with a strange, intense energy. The weight of his gaze pinned you to your seat.

Victor moved toward you, his steps silent, his presence suffocating the air. As he approached, the world seemed to bend around him, warping in strange, unnatural ways.

When he was just inches away, he reached out. His cold, spectral fingers brushed against your wrist, delicate but firm.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Victor finally whispered, his voice low and raspy, like a distant echo.