Echoes in the velvet seats

2. The old photograph

The old photograph

---

Late into the night, the house is cloaked in silence, save for the occasional creak of floorboards. Edith moves stealthily through the dimly lit corridors, her candle casting a warm, flickering glow that seems to dance with her anxious steps. The soft light barely penetrates the shadows, but it is just enough to guide her toward the attic.

The attic door groans softly as she pushes it open, revealing a space cloaked in darkness and dust. It is a vast expanse filled with old trunks, forgotten furniture draped in old sheets.

As Edith's eyes adjust to the gloom, she begins her search. Her movements are careful and deliberate, her hands brushing away cobwebs as she navigates through the clutter. In a corner of the room, she spots a large bookshelf, its shelves sagging under the weight of old documents and blueprints.

She climbs onto a rickety ladder and reaches for a box perched high on the shelf. The box, heavy with years of accumulated dust, comes down with a puff of airborne particles that make her sneeze, causing her eyes to water. The irritation is brief, and she quickly sets the box on a nearby trunk, eager to uncover its contents.

She blows off the thick layer of dust, revealing a collection of old photographs and letters. Her fingers tremble slightly as she opens the box, the anticipation of discovery mingling with her allergies. As she flips through the photographs, she is greeted with images of her family in their youth. Each photograph is a glimpse into a past she has only heard about in fragmented stories.

Then, her gaze falls upon a particular photograph that catches her attention: it shows her grandfather, Philip, as a young man, standing proudly beside another man outside the Royal Theatre. The other man, tall and confident, with an enigmatic smile, is unfamiliar to Edith, but there is something about him that feels important.

She flips the photograph over and finds a note scrawled on the back in faded ink: "Philip Lloyd and Louis Erbert Harrison, the opening night of the Imperial Theatre, 1840."

Her heart skips a beat. She has heard whispers of Mr. Harrison before, fragments of conversations that paint him in reverent tones. Her grandfather has spoken of him with a mix of admiration and sadness, but the details have always been elusive.

Carefully, Edith sets the photograph aside and continues her search. Beneath a stack of letters, she unearths an old,

fragile playbill. Its corners are worn, and it seems to hold the weight of years within its yellowed pages. The playbill lists a performance from decades past, and at the bottom, in delicate script, is a note: "In memory of Louis, may his spirit forever guide the Royal Theatre."

Her mind races. This Mr. Harrison clearly means a great deal to her grandfather, and by extension, the theater holds a significant place in their family's history. She knows she has found something that could help her get the answers she wants.

But why does her family keep their connections to the theater a secret? Why hasn't her grandpa ever talked about it? She knows there is something bigger behind the theater if she could search for more clues...

Her contemplation is abruptly interrupted by a sudden creaking sound behind her. Edith freezes, her breath catching in her throat. The playbill slips from her fingers, landing beside the photograph. The attic door slowly creaks open, and the faint light of another candle cuts through the darkness. Her grandfather Philip appears in the doorway, his gaze scanning the room with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"Edith, what are you doing up here?" he asks, his voice gentle but with a hint of concern.

Edith's heart pounds in her chest. She can already imagine the stern lecture from her parents and the consequences of her trespassing. She glances at the photograph on the floor, then back at her grandfather. With a deep breath, she faces him and asks, "Who is this Mr. Harrison?"

Philip's expression softens as he notices the photograph. Slowly, he makes his way to her, leaning heavily on his walking stick. He settles into an old armchair beside her, the worn upholstery sighing under his weight. With a careful hand, he takes the photograph in his hands and studies it with a nostalgic gaze.

"Louis was... my closest friend," Philip begins, his voice steady but laden with an emotional undertone. "We built that theatre together, long before you were born. It was our dream to create something beautiful, a place where people could escape their troubles, even if just for a few hours."

Edith listens with rapt attention, absorbing the depth of her grandfather's affection and the sorrow that seems to linger in his words. "He was like a brother to me," Philip continues. "But when he died... something in me died too. I couldn't bear to go back to the theatre after that. It became haunted, not by ghosts, but by memories."

Edith struggles to piece together the fragments of information. "Is that why no one talks about it? Is that why I can't visit the theatre? Because of old memories?"

Philip nods slowly. "Yes. Your parents... they thought it best to let it all fade away, to move on. But some things don't just fade. They stay with you, even when you wish they could burn away."

Philip sighs, looking at the confused features of Edith's pale face.

"Are you implying that there was a fire?" She asks.

Philip's sighs, smiling at the cleverness of his granddaughter. "Your parents will scold you if they find out you went up here. Now, go, dear. I've told you enough."

Edith smiles back at him and, picking up her candle from the dusty wooden planks, she heads back to her room.

"I hope my grandpa is the only one who heard me" she thinks, running as silently as possible on the cold pavement of the first floor's corridor.

Once inside her room, she hurries to her drawer, pulling out a pen and some old sheet music. She jots down the names and dates she has learned: "Philip Harrison... Royal Theater...1840...fire."