The first sound was applause.
It struck like a wave, rolling through the darkened auditorium — hundreds of hands clapping, echoing off the vaulted ceiling until the air itself trembled.
When I opened my eyes, the light hit me full in the face — blinding white, hot, relentless.
I stood center stage.
The suit clinging to this body was sharp and perfectly cut, its fabric smelling faintly of cologne and nerves.
The microphone gleamed beneath my fingers.
Behind me, the faint hum of an orchestra tuning out; before me, a sea of faces blurred together by the glare.
And within me — silence.
A name rose slowly from the fog of memory: Adrian Vale.
Singer. Pianist. Darling of the screens and stages.
The man who had everything.
The applause went on, but it sounded hollow, distant.
Like rain on glass heard from another room.
I turned slightly toward the wings.
A stagehand gave a signal.
The orchestra's first note swelled.
The song began — something soft, haunting.
The kind of piece that wrapped around the audience's hearts like velvet and left them breathless.
Adrian's voice emerged — smooth, deep, aching with something beautiful and broken.
Every note fell perfectly in place.
Every chord touched precisely where it was meant to.
The crowd adored him.
They always did.
But inside, behind the flawless tone and perfect smile, the truth sat cold and still.
"This isn't me," he thought. "It hasn't been for years."
The spotlight burned hot on his skin.
Sweat beaded at his temple.
The smile stayed — trained, practiced, unshakable — while inside his chest, something small and fragile twisted.
He sang through the chorus, the words a confession wrapped in melody:
I've been chasing echoes of a life that never stayed,
A ghost in velvet halls, fading as I play...
The audience leaned forward, captured, unaware that the man before them was unraveling.
When the final note faded, the applause came again — thunderous, demanding, relentless.
Adrian bowed.
His smile glimmered beneath the lights.
But when he straightened, he saw it:
The first row was empty where it should not have been.
The chair where someone used to sit — always, every performance — was vacant.
The lights seemed to dim around that empty seat, until it became all he could see.
He stepped back from the edge of the stage, his vision swimming in the glare.
Backstage, as the applause still thundered, he murmured under his breath — words no one could hear over the ovation:
"You should've been here, Elise."