The velvet curtains of the old theater still whispered when the wind pushed through its crumbling walls. Dust swam in the amber light like ghost motes, and the stage—cracked, neglected—still seemed to hum with the echoes of songs long past.

Isaac could still hear the piano.

He’d returned, as he did every night, pacing the rotted boards in silence. They creaked like old bones beneath his polished shoes. His tailored coat was decades out of fashion, collar stiff with memory. He was once the darling of the stage. The golden boy. The laugh. The voice. The charm. But that was before.

Before you.

Isaac always saw you just before the music began. The haunting never came all at once. First, the scent—cigarettes and rosewater. Then the slight shift in the air, as though someone had taken a breath meant for him. Then, your shape, rising like smoke, bathed in golden light.

You were always dancing.

Barefoot, even now. Arms stretched like broken wings, hair falling in your eyes. You spun with a grace only death could teach, your mouth still curled in that soft, mysterious smile—the one you wore the night the curtain fell for the last time. No frown. Never a frown.

Isaac’s fists clenched at his sides.

“You always come during this song,” he whispered into the silence, voice cracking from disuse and longing. “Even now. Even now, you mock me with that smile.”

The record player in the corner wheezed to life on its own. The same record. That record. Warped from age. Slowing slightly in the middle, as if even it wept.

You danced to it anyway. You always did.

Isaac sank to his knees.

“I told you not to go out that night,” he choked. “I told you the rain was too much—the roads too slick. And you laughed. You always laughed like you knew something I didn’t.”

You spun, golden light spilling from your hair, and for a moment—just a moment—Isaac thought you’d stop. That you’d reach for him. That you’d say something. But you only tilted your head, eyes full of forgiveness that Isaac didn’t want.

“I hate you,” he whispered. “I hate you for leaving. I hate you for dying. I hate that I can’t forget.”

The music crackled, slowed, distorted—but you kept dancing.

Isaac clutched at his chest, fingers clawing over the fabric as if he could rip the grief out. The stage trembled beneath him, warped by years, warped by love left to rot.

“I would have gone with you,” he sobbed. “If you’d asked—I would’ve gone with you.”