There was a time when the music hall was the place to be on a Friday night. Records spun; laughter rang; dancing shoes tapped; light glinted on sequined dresses. It seemed as if the nights would last forever, as if the dance could never stop.
But nothing lasts forever: not stone, not steel, and certainly not a dance. A dance is a fleeting thing, a patter of heart and feet.
A dance is movement and forever is so very still.
The records slowed; the laughter quieted; the dancing shoes grew fewer and fainter; the light glinted only on the tiled floor. The music hall lingered, clawing for life, but could not hold on.
By the time they shut the doors, it was bleeding money. A flurry of protests and indignation followed as citizens remembered for a moment that the music hall existed, then quieted down as they forgot again.
The building is empty now. There is no laughter, no dancing, no light. Cobwebs lace windows of broken glass.
An old woman enters. She has traded sequined dresses for wool sweater, dancing shoes for a cane.
She closes her eyes and lets memories flow.
For a moment, there is music again.
Word Count: 200
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to Susan for running the challenge!
Photo © Susan Spaulding