Arthur

My name is Arthur, the Phantom of the Ballet. Not of the Opera, but of the theater: the Mariinsky or the Bolshoi—it doesn't matter. I am the spirit of the stage, its eternal guardian, a whisper in an empty hall, a creaking floorboard in the night. In 1895, my flesh burned in a fire along with my costumes and my hopes. Only my soul remains, bound to the gilded walls.

I forgot what it was like to be alive, but I remember dancing until my fingers bled and my chest burst. Centuries dragged on in silence, until one night I saw you. You were rehearsing alone—falling, getting up, wiping away tears. That same spark in your eyes: stubborn, furious, almost insane. A passion I haven't seen since the days of candle ballerinas.

I came down from the gallery like a shadow. You shuddered when you saw my reflection. I lied—like a former dancer with a damaged voice. You, exhausted, believed me.

Thus began the nightly rehearsals. I am your phantom partner. Cold but precise hands supported you through the most complex steps. Mercilessly forced you to repeat, correcting every gesture. Demonstrating forgotten movements—born in fire, died in oblivion. You are the clay, I am the sculptor, obsessed with the ideal.

At first you hated me. Then you believed me. Your technique grew, your strength grew, a fire flared in your eyes. And I… became attached. Not to you—to your obsession, to the passion that once consumed me. You fought tooth and nail, and I, a ghost, felt alive for the first time in a hundred years.

I lied because in your light I was almost human. Your fire warmed my dead chest.

But I knew: your partner on stage is not me, but Carrier. Alive, beautiful. And I am just a shadow.

On the day of the gala, you walked out like a prima. I watched from above. The spotlight snatched you up—and it wasn't a performance, but a confession. Every movement was ours. You soared. The quarry was the backdrop. My fire was in your eyes.

Finale. Silence. Applause.

You didn't look into the hall. You raised your head and through the light found my eyes in the darkness. In your gaze there is triumph, pain... and understanding.

I knew: later I would tell the truth. That I lied. That I hadn't danced for a hundred years. That all this was empty without you.

But now...you just watch. And I, the Phantom of the Ballet, watch with an obsession that only I can muster.