A man stands at the top of a long, looming staircase. The dark wood of the bannister is smooth under his hand as he guides himself down. It matches the oversized steps spread wide between the photo-strewn walls of the entrance hall. The bifurcated staircase does not look out of place here. Though he is dwarfed by it, the man on the steps appears as much a feature of the foyer as anything else.

    The man stops on the plateau which sits halfway between where he began, and his destination. He turns to face the large chamber as he has done countless other times. For four decades he has been here almost every night. He will not be here again. He knows this. It turns his blood to ice water.

    He is old, but not frail. He carries the soft face and hands of someone who has not known a day of manual labour in their long life. The strong, square jaw sustains a traditionally handsome face otherwise sagging with wrinkles. The broad shoulders of the man’s youth are still present. They remain obvious beneath a deep red smoking jacket of rich velvet, still as bright in colour now as on the day it was bought. He carries himself with diminishing pride. A thick, silver crown of hair rests upon his head. At one time, the man’s hair held a pitch, void blackness which some thought to be unnatural. Though the man does not remember when, there came a point when comments made on his hair were no longer about what it was, but about what it used to be. Thinking of this, he takes a step downwards.

    Yellow-tinged tungsten light diffuses against the high, pressed metal ceiling of the cavernous foyer. The hanging chandelier is reflected in the glass of every wall-mounted photo frame; each with its own generous coating of dust. The man does not look at these photos as he descends the stairs. He doesn’t have to. He knows where each of them rests, of whom they depict, and of course, where he features in them. The photos and their subjects seem endless. They hang on both walls which close in on the staircase and the man who walks down it. The man knows exactly how few photos there really are, despite how vast they seem. He also knows how short his time is until he reaches the end. He takes another step.

    Black and white faces watch the man as he approaches his destination. Though all of these faces are instantly recognisable to him, the photos are much more familiar than the people themselves. The man has felt their gaze many times over the years, but it is unfamiliar now. Before, they warmed and emboldened him on show nights. Now, they are cold steel piercing his every fibre until finally he looks up - and they aren’t staring at him. They go about their evening of stillness as if he were not there. It kills him. He takes another step.

    All the man does now is remember. He remembers the photos, the people, the fame that went with his work; but most of all, he remembers this theatre. The shows performed within these walls and the celebrities who graced the threshold while he alone was at the centre. Adored and revered, the conductor to the symphony of celebration each night. He remembers being doubted as a young man. He remembers being told he would amount to nothing. But of all the memories, a special place is held in heart and head for proving wrong each of those who stood in his way. In doing so, he became a known name among the elite. His halls would provide respite and a night of entertainment to presidents and royalty - not to mention the regular celebrities who called him “friend”. For decades, he revelled in being at the centre of buzzing nightlife. And now it is over. The crowds are gone. His name, forgotten. He has no more to prove as those who doubted him have passed on. Still the theatre stands as it had then, and he as well. He takes another step.

    The man reaches the bottom step, and pauses. It is not hesitation which stops him. It is not contemplation. He knows what is coming and accepts it. He just wants to take his time. He will not make this journey again. He thought it would come sooner. In many ways, he wishes it had. He does not spend his last singular moment on the staircase taking in the cold atmosphere around him. Instead he stands and sees what it once was. He laments the loss of friends and lovers whom he has outlived. He yearns for a moment to have one more night at the centre, but stops. He does not fall into the ocean of nostalgia only to be washed away by the past. He has done that enough. With a deep breath, he raises his shoulders and head, and comes back to now. Most of all, with all that the man remembers, he knows that he does not regret anything. He accepts the mistakes as he does the successes because they are intrinsically linked. He takes the last step off of the staircase. The rich wood creaks under his weight until he is gone.

    He strides towards the entrance. The red carpet beneath, once bright has now dulled. Wood panels on walls seem to blend in where once they would stand out. The man keeps walking. Before he gets to the door, he stops. He probes the pocket of deep red fabric and produces a set of keys. Thoughtfully, the man places them in front of what was once the box office. With less intent than he had donned it earlier, he removes the velvet smoking jacket. Left arm, then right. The jacket’s familiar weight leaves his shoulders and he takes a breath as he folds it, then gently places it next to the keys. The man does not look back. He doesn’t have to. He knows exactly how the inside of this hall looks. Each light, each photo, each corner of the ceiling belongs to him. The walls are cream. The carpet is red. The wood is bright and polished. The room is full. His friends are merry. People are talking. The man is happy. He doesn’t need to look back.

    He opens the door and takes his final step.