It was nice down here. The darkness wasn't absolute; light filtered in through cracks in the ceiling to where old sets and backdrops, props and costumes, were left carefully stored for use at some point in the future. The little one had made friends with all the faces on the posters, given them names of her own and stories that went with their pictures. She liked them. They didn't push her away or throw her out of her new-found home.
It wasn't silent, either. Every day there was noise from above; the sounds of people going about their business, of voices chattering and laughing together, of footsteps and dance steps and music. She liked music; it soothed the bad memories when they came back to haunt her, made her smile. She knew every one of the voices above who made music, could tell them apart even when they sang together. It helped her to feel safe.
She had everything she could possibly need in this secret, forgotten corner. Playmates in the form of props and backdrops, the faces she had learned from the posters left with them; clothing and bedding, made from the folds of fabric once worn on the stage itself above her; music and movement nearby to stave off the oppressive silence; streams of light to play with before the building grew quiet once again.
Food was always there to find, and creeping up to the world above, where light and sound ruled, was not so difficult as it might have seemed. No one seemed to have noticed that small portions of food were going missing from the kitchens near the cafe, nor that every now and then a bottle or two of something would disappear from the store-room behind the lower bar. And even if they had, what could they do' There was never even a hint of a crumb trail to follow.
The gray lady who walked through walls came and spoke to her sometimes. That was nice. She was nice; very quiet, never angry or upset. She just came and spoke softly to the little one living among the dying souls of plays and shows over and done with, never once giving any clue to those who made their lives in the world above that there was anything down here but mice and memories.
She liked it here. It was ...
....safe.
It wasn't silent, either. Every day there was noise from above; the sounds of people going about their business, of voices chattering and laughing together, of footsteps and dance steps and music. She liked music; it soothed the bad memories when they came back to haunt her, made her smile. She knew every one of the voices above who made music, could tell them apart even when they sang together. It helped her to feel safe.
She had everything she could possibly need in this secret, forgotten corner. Playmates in the form of props and backdrops, the faces she had learned from the posters left with them; clothing and bedding, made from the folds of fabric once worn on the stage itself above her; music and movement nearby to stave off the oppressive silence; streams of light to play with before the building grew quiet once again.
Food was always there to find, and creeping up to the world above, where light and sound ruled, was not so difficult as it might have seemed. No one seemed to have noticed that small portions of food were going missing from the kitchens near the cafe, nor that every now and then a bottle or two of something would disappear from the store-room behind the lower bar. And even if they had, what could they do' There was never even a hint of a crumb trail to follow.
The gray lady who walked through walls came and spoke to her sometimes. That was nice. She was nice; very quiet, never angry or upset. She just came and spoke softly to the little one living among the dying souls of plays and shows over and done with, never once giving any clue to those who made their lives in the world above that there was anything down here but mice and memories.
She liked it here. It was ...
....safe.