A dark February night hung over the city. Reminiscent of silhouettes that watch but do nothing, the air was damp and soaked with the remnants of the recent rain that had never turned into snow. Only a cold mist that slowly settled on the broken eaves and black roofs. This evening's sky was ashen-purple and starless, as if it were unwilling to gaze downward and disperse its dark carpet with its endless glitters. This day was supposed to be romantic, and although the warmth and comfort shone in many windows, bear-and-heart-like-shaped lanterns meant little to many around there. Only a few celebrated this lovely day, forgetting about everything around them and paying special attention to each other, even when this can be done on any day that has no special mark.

Once majestic, the opera house now stands at the end of the square. The lanterns burned through one, their light muddy and yellowish, and they attempted to reflect the light of the full moon, which was the largest lantern and took on the role, it rested in hazy patches on the damp asphalt, where the sky was mirrored-dark and abyssal, devoid of any trace of celebration. Valentine's Day here looked like irony. But the facade still had some of its old beauty; broken statues of the muses, cracked columns, and burned bas-reliefs. And the broken stained glass windows let in the same dim moonlight, but there's no sound from inside. There's only a dense silence that felt like it's made of matter. And when the heavy doors of the theater gave way, their creak cut through the space, as if breaking the oath of silence. Dust, old wood, burnt cloth, and curtains that drooped from the balconies like faded flowers, as well as a faint metallic scent, betrayed the residual energy of demons, were all present within. Under the dome, the frescoes were hardly discernible, musicians with blurred faces and angels with charred wings and the large chandelier hung crookedly, some of the crystal pendants broken, others gently touching one another as the wind filtered through the crevices. This place looked too vacant, too... Phony.

Vergil moved without haste. His steps were almost silent, but the echoes still followed him, repeating each movement with a delay. His gaze was tense, controlled, and like a taut string as it glided along the dark openings of the corridors and along the balconies, where a gray trail of dust had left its mark on his glove. He ran his fingers along the banister of the stairs, a tension was barely discernible in his movements, and the stone and space behind these walls were not merely the result of demonic energy. Not fear - anticipation, and he felt it, but he couldn't confirm his guesses. And at this moment, she shifted slightly to the side, examining the old poster that was entirely obscured by the names and dates of future performances. The poster, which would no longer be audible on this stage, held greater significance, while the air between them had grown even thicker, as if there were only seconds left until something...

And suddenly, he saw it – a glimpse of her actual form as she walked past the mirror causing dust to swirl around it as it crossed the beam of light. It stood to the side, nearly concealed behind the fragments of scenery, tall, in a gilded frame that had darkened and cracked, its surface was damaged but intact enough to hold hold the memo. This theater had once been a place of confessions of feelings, arias about love, tragedies, and passions, now – a ruin. Like something in these two souls who stood opposite each other. As Vergil looked at her, he's stuck between the past and the present, between ruin and memory. His expression became more reserved and colder, and his jaw slowly tightened as if he were attempting to refrain saying unnecessary words at this moment.

“Sing to me.” ,- these words weren't a command that echoed around. Just a test, but at the same time, something much deeper. Like he wanted to get back not just the sound, but the moment when the stage was alive and he's just a shadow among the audience.