I was the last person to leave the stage after the show

I stood in the dark, not waiting for a cue, just listening. The air hummed with what had been—light levels still warm from the final blackout, the smell of dust and old glue. I could hear the silence between the beats of the house system, like breath held too long. No one else was there. Not even the janitor. And then, faintly, the orchestra started playing again—just the first violin, alone, tuning to nothing. I didn’t move. I didn’t need to. It wasn’t a rehearsal. It was a memory pretending to be real.