Poke Opera had once been the crux of my life: the root of my dreams; my raison d'être, but also the Eden of my unrequited lust.
Now I watch the stage like a hawk every night, my only intimate companion being the shadows. I have dwelled here since that fateful day, not awaiting a revival. Not anticipating any recompense for what was lost then, that could never be returned.
Tonight they are performing Rose de l'amour éternel for the first time since opening night. It was I that had slashed the lights in a fury, when I had realized that despite everything I had done to keep the Palais Thornier dead in my heart, it once again lives and breathes, before me, the wretched forgotten thing that dwells in the rafters.
Yet even now in my degenerate state, the warmth of Carmine still can reach me, as she begins her Blooming Heart cantata:
"My heart sees you at last,
Your rose, its thorns, bored in my heart,
I bless your name..."
I absorb the reaction of the audience like a ray of sun. Their bated breaths, the minute whispers shared among them tickle my brittle chin tangibly.
When the Lilligant releases a cloud of blue powder into the air, turned purple by the red spotlight that enshrines her, my heartbeat quickens. How long had it been since the last time I enjoyed that stage, and entertained hundreds?
How long ago was it, when I flourished in her presence?