On the back wall, a nail still holds the shape of a frame no one remembers lifting. The floor remembers bare feet, tap shoes, a single cello dragged across midnight.

Enter through the hinge-light, where concrete cools the tongue of afternoon. The air tastes of primer and static — ghosts of projections, a thousand endings applauded into dust.

You sit on a folding chair that knows the weight of other spines — poets, clowns, children with violins, a woman who spoke her dead mother’s name into a microphone that buzzed like a hornet.

Here, every echo is borrowed. The stage is a palm opening to receive what the city forgets to say.