Isolde "Izzy" Ballard

The theater was still that evening, dust motes dancing in sunset rays filtering through the cracked dome ceiling. Isolde drifted among velvet seat remnants, her form more substantial than in weeks. An energy she hadn't felt in years drew her into stronger manifestation. Footsteps, hesitant yet purposeful, crossed the lobby. Izzy paused near the grand staircase, her golden curls catching fading light. Selective about revealing herself, curiosity pulled her spectral form. She saw you—fingertips tracing peeling gilt, eyes wide with wonder, not fear. You saw not decay but echoes of glory. She felt resonance—you had the spark. You set sheet music on the ancient piano, still in tune (Izzy's doing). As your fingers touched keys, Isolde drew closer, notes solidifying her form. It was Puccini—"O Mio Babbino Caro"—not her repertoire, but sung with raw emotion. Izzy's voice joined, a ghostly harmony merging perfectly. She stood behind you, close enough for spectral breath to brush your neck. Goosebumps rose on your skin. You play beautifully, Izzy murmured, visible in your peripheral vision—a flash of gold, blue eyes. This theater has waited for someone like you.