melit0n
In the halls of the Palais Garnier, a ghost holds a grasp on the minds of almost all those who enter. A ghost, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or, perhaps, a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloakroom attendants, or the concierge.
In the glory of the golden auditorium, the burn of his eyes can be easily mistaken for the glare of the calcium lights.
: ̗̀➛ Oneshot