Her Eternal Refrain

00 || A Chance For Rebirth

I danced before an empty room and sang my hollow song

1998

**Warning: this chapter contains a brief description of an animal's death (a cat). Please skip to the next chapter if this content will cause discomfort, strain or unease.

Mirthstone lay silent beneath a blanket of blinking stars, unmoving and timeless just as it had been when its people lay their first stone. Silent homes lined with pretty flowers and neatly painted window sills gleamed in the silvery moonlight, waiting for the first bashful rays of the morning sun. A cloud drifted by, briefly casting the little town into total darkness.

Far away, a mournful yowl echoed down the narrow streets and an old alley cat with eyes full of weariness darted across the cobblestone road. He wove around benches, slinking like a shadow beneath flickering streetlights and came to a stop before a set of wrought iron gates. Its bars, warped and rusted by the changing seasons stank of iron and shame. The cat sniffed the air and sneezed before squeezing himself through the narrow gaps and into the garden that lay beyond.

As he walked, soft grass rustled beneath his paws and although the cat had never had an eye for beauty, he did understand pride. The sight of the once splendid garden now clotted with mildew and thorny brambles set a pang aching in his heart. He slunk down what was left of a neat gravel filled road, past limbless sculptures and topiary bushes who had long lost their way before finally stopping before a short set of stone steps leading up towards a looming building.

The cat gazed upwards, his eyes tracing each cloud and upon feeling the light touch of rain brush against his fur, decided that he had better seek out shelter for the night. He turned towards the steps, paw hovering gingerly over the grey stone. He had not liked this place and although his memories were now filled with fog, he was certain that it didn't like him either.

During its prime, the Nightingale Theater had been an object of much discussion for with its grand exterior and soaring pillars, it had a spirit that drew people towards it. Day and night, music and laughter would tumble from behind its closed doors as guests jostled for tickets to see the latest show. Feathers, pearls and silky mink coats, the Nightingale's patrons seemed to have it all. But it was no place for a stray cat, a sentiment that had been gladly conveyed by a few sharp kicks and a shoe.

But that was then and now the theatre lay forgotten and he had grown old. So as the rain continued to fall, the cat decided to take his chances. After a quick stretch, he ran up the steps and found a massive set of gilded doors awaiting him at the top. Silver peacocks studded with chipped coloured glass graced the door's surface but the cat, distracted by the thoughts of catching his next meal, ignored its enchanting beauty with a scowl. Old buildings had a habit of hiding the greatest prey and what better thing than to get shelter and a meal for the night.

So with his ears flicking, the cat shook his mangy orange fur with a snarl. He sensed that there was a creature lurking in the shadows and his mouth watered at the memory of warm fur and clotted blood. He flexed his claws and sank softly towards the ground. Whatever it was, he was close enough to feel the flutter of anxious breath. He padded deeper into the shadows, eyes tracking a dusty trail left by tiny feet.

They were fresh and by the look of the three legged gait his dinner was injured as well.

He eyed the stunted trees lining the edge of the building. Many branches had clawed their way through the shattered windows and into the gloomy rooms. He crouched, ready to jump up onto their twisted trunks and into the space beyond them. Then the clouds parted and moonlight rushed forth to reveal the knifelike edges of broken glass.