As soon as they had stepped through the doorway, they heard a loud "THUMP!" sound again, and the door disappeared just as fast as it had arrived.
Karyn and Jon looked up, awestruck at the room they were now in.
It was a room full to bursting of clothes. Floor to ceiling, hundreds of shirts, pants, dresses, skirts, leotards, scarves, shoes and dozens more types of clothing that Jon didn't even know the names for.
“It must be some kind of wardrobe room.” Karyn turned and said to Jon
“Must be, but were?” He asked her.
“I have no idea, but wherever we are, it must be closed,” Karyn said, commenting on the lack of any sound other than their voices.
“You noticed that too, then?” Jon asked her.
“It’s hard to miss. You can usually hear something no matter where you are, but here there is nothing.” She said.
“Well, we are not going to find anything here,” he said with a smile on his face as he reached for the handle in front of him.
“I suppose not,” Karyn replied with a smile almost as wide.
They walked out of the room they had arrived in, and that’s when they saw the very occupied corridor, but no one seemed to notice them, or if they did, they didn’t look as if they had. Karyn was the first to realize why.
”Jon, they are not moving.” She told him.
“What are they, mannequins or something?” He asked.
“I don’t think so, this one is warm.” She said as she put her hand lightly on the shoulder of one of the girls nearby.
The woman wore a towering feathered headdress that rose dramatically above her head in a burst of soft white plumes, making her seem almost statuesque even while standing perfectly still. Feathers spilled around her shoulders like clouds, softening her outline and drawing the eye toward the glittering centre of the costume.
The bodice was intricately worked with dense silver rhinestones, sequins, and embroidered detailing that caught the light from every angle. Against the pale ivory fabric, the decoration created a wet, shimmering effect typical of old stage costumes. The plunging neckline and tightly shaped waist sculpted her silhouette into something exaggerated and theatrical, as though she belonged beneath spotlights rather than in ordinary life.
Long panels of lightweight fabric fell from her hips in elegant folds, split high enough to leave most of her legs exposed. Even without movement, the material seemed soft and fluid, while the glittering trim running along the slits flashed whenever the light touched it.
Jon turned to Karyn with a smirk on his face, “Karyn, I don’t think we are in Kanass anymore.”
“What?”
“Sorry, I have always wanted to say that.” He reliped, trying not to laugh.
“What am I going to do with you?” She said, trying not to laugh at his very bad joke.
“Think we must be in a theatre of some kind.” Karyn went on to say.
“What makes you think that?” Jon asked
“Well, there what she is wearing, Karyn said, pointing back towards the woman she had just had her hand on. “And then there is this,” She said, pointing to the wall.
Jon turned to look at where Karyn was pointing to see an old poster hanging there.
Its paper had yellowed heavily with age, the edges curled and cracked where tiny tears had formed over the years. Fold lines crossed the surface from where it had once been stored away before being pinned into place. The corners were worn soft, and faint water stains spread like bruises beneath the papers, giving the impression that the poster had survived long after most people had forgotten the performance it advertised.
Across the top, in bold were the words THÉÂTRE DE LA RUE DES ROSES stretching from edge to edge, followed beneath by the smaller word PRÉSENTE.
ÉLISE MOREAU.
The lettering was enormous, dark, and commanding, impossible to ignore even from the far end of the corridor.
Beside the text stood the image of a woman. The portrait had the softened grain of an old publicity photograph, its contrast slightly faded with time. She appeared poised and distant, her pale features framed by carefully styled blonde waves that rested against her shoulders in perfect curls. Her expression was calm, unreadable, and faintly melancholic, as though she had been photographed moments before stepping onto the stage.
She wore a dark velvet evening gown whose heavy fabric swallowed the surrounding light except where soft folds reflected muted highlights. Long opera gloves extended above her elbows, reinforcing the refined glamour of her outfit.
Beside her in some kind of elegant-looking script were the words.
Un parfum d’hier.
Further text listed what they thought was the play’s creative staff, performance times, and theatre address in formal French typography. At the bottom, partly faded but still legible, remained the date:
À PARTIR DU 19 SEPTEMBRE 1952.
“What does it say?” He asked.
“I think it’s in another language, French, I think, and I don’t speak French.” She told him.
“So we are in a theatre, but that doesn’t tell us where,” Jon replied.
“It was only a suggestion. I wonder what happened to her, though?” Karyn said.
“No Idea,” Jon said.
