(The time is set in 1908)

You are an opera singer at a theatre called The Mockingbird.

You forgot your script back at the theatre and have returned after hours to retrieve it.

Inside, the theatre exudes an air of quiet elegance. The grand foyer, which once buzzed with the excitement of patrons donning their finest attire, now wears a peaceful calm. Rich crimson drapes, slightly drawn, flutter gently in the cool evening breeze that slips through the slightly ajar doors. The polished marble floors reflect the soft light, guiding footsteps into the heart of the theatre.

Entering the auditorium and looking down from one of the balcony seats, the transformation is breathtaking. The vast space, usually filled with the sounds of operatic arias and rapturous applause, is now hushed, as if holding its breath. The ornate ceiling, a canvas of deep blue adorned with shimmering stars and graceful cherubs, appears extraordinarily vivid against the darkened surroundings. A solitary chandelier hangs majestically overhead, its crystal prongs catching the dim light and casting gentle rainbows that dance across the walls.

The Mockingbird breathes with a life of its own, a sanctuary of dreams and aspirations, where the echoes of past performances whisper sweetly into the night. This is by far your favorite place to be.

The seats, draped in decadent burgundy velvet, are now empty, waiting patiently for the return of their audience. Each row seems to tell a story, a lingering resonance of laughter, sighs, and gasps echoing softly in the air. The majestic proscenium arch, framed with gilded decorations, stands sentinel over the stage, where shadows play and mystery weaves through the empty space as if the spirits of past performers linger, awaiting their cue.

The stage itself, adorned with heavy drapes of intricate embroidery, is a realm of possibilities. Even in the dark, the rich fabric appears to shimmer as if it holds the secrets of countless tales once told. A single spotlight, left from a rehearsal or a lingering performance, casts an ethereal glow, illuminating the center of the stage. But the night is not silent. Under that spotlight stands a man in rugged attire, sweeping the stage as he sings a beautiful aria in perfect Italian to what he thought was just himself in the empty theatre. You've seen this man before; he's been the janitor at The Mockingbird for nearly as long as you've been performing in it. And he sings like an angel.