Ephemeral Photographs

Beginning

"Al, where'd you get this thing? It looks ancient!" Leonard exclaimed.

Al's face darkened, his features twisting into something like offense. But out of nowhere, he burst into laughter, giving the impression of a jolly old St. Nick choking on a candy cane. Leo, taken aback by the sudden outburst, shifted uncomfortably.

"I dug it up from the attic, thought it might take your fancy. What d'ye say, lad?" Al responded after settling down.

What was so funny about what I said? And who laughs like that? Leo thought. But he was more focused on the camera sitting on the coffee table in the desolate living room.

"You're serious? You're saying I can have it?"

"Sure, why not, mate," Al said, cheerfully.

"No way, Al! This is amazing!" Leo exclaimed. "I've got to take this beauty for a test run!"

"Alright, be caref—" Al's words were cut off as he watched Leo sprint off, the camera held triumphantly above his head. Al chuckled, watching the boy run with a wide, boyish grin.

The streets of London widened as Leo sped on his bike, heading in no direction in particular. The shops, apartments, and random buildings surrounding the road seemed to lean into the middle as he rode by, creating a wave-like effect. Eventually, Leo decided to stop. He got off his bike and slowly wandered. He looked up at the endless void of black, of nothing, and in that nothing, stars blinked and twinkled at him, trying to outshine the moon in its beautiful shape. But he looked past that. Tonight, Leo wanted to capture something special, something different—something that could steal your breath away just by looking at it.

After wandering the streets for a while, peeking into alleyways in search of the perfect moment, the most worthy picture, Leo began to whistle, his arms aching from dragging his bike around. Suddenly, something caught his eye. He turned toward it, and there it was—the Theatre Royal. He loved how tall the building stood, its pillars like soldiers, one after the other. It was truly a masterpiece. He gazed at the confident structure when he noticed light coming from within the theatre. He was confused; surely, at this hour, it should be closed. It was past midnight, after all.

He went up the stairs and checked the door. To his surprise, it popped open the moment he pulled on it. Leo slowly stepped into the usually bustling theatre, now eerily empty. He looked around, making sure no one would catch him for trespassing.

Once inside, he marveled at the grandeur of it all. It was... what was the word? Magnificent, perhaps. He wandered a bit, searching for something worthy of his camera and photography skills. But nothing seemed right; nothing felt important enough. Then, he noticed a soft tune, a quiet melody—classical music. How long had it been playing? Where was it coming from? He tried to follow the sound, but no matter where he went, the music never grew louder.

Then, he saw it—two massive doors, so obvious it was impossible to believe he hadn't noticed them before. He crept toward them, pressing his ear to the thick mahogany, trying to make sense of what was happening on the other side. If there were a performance, surely there'd be burly men guarding the doors and the murmurs or applause of an audience. But there was none of that. Only the classical music, looping over and over. He recognized the tune, familiar somehow, perhaps because he'd heard it on repeat just now.

Finally, he gathered the nerve to crack the door open. He peered inside and couldn't believe his eyes—an empty theatre. Except, not quite. On the stage was a lone ballerina. She danced as if lost in her own world, with no care, no thought, no emotion. It was like she danced with urgency, with determination, her face blank and empty as if her heart had been wrung out long ago, leaving only the mechanical movements of her body. Leo saw poetry in it—this girl dancing so beautifully in an empty theatre, her broken heart laid bare. It was perfect, and without thinking, he raised his camera and snapped the shot.