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She can hear the church bells ringing, she can hear the curtain falling, she can hear the orchestra growing dead.

The stage is on fire.

The actors discard their argent masks, and they shatter when they hit the floor. They shatter, like the fragile lives they used to conceal.

And her fingers bleed against the shards of gleaming silver.

Wordlessly, a member of the audience walks, agonisingly slow, up the stairs, across the burning wooden stage.

He is drawn to the actor, she the only one left in the conflagration. But he does not ask why she stays.

He does not want to shatter the silence between them, the crackling of the flames unheard by either of them.

She does not rise, her position awkward, yet graceful. She freezes, gently drawing back (she cannot be seen as rude) as he reaches out to touch the edges of the mask.

No, she pleads with crimson eyes, it is the only thing I have left.

The other does not proceed.

The fire is dying, there are people returning to the theatre. Man and woman separate, but their eyes linger. Crimson and sapphire, confusing, intoxicating, understanding.

The last dance is yet to be.

Shall we meet again? On a stage where the only act is ours, where the curtain never falls, where there is a happily ever after.

Say you'll be mine, and only mine.