Rain, perfect for increasing the ambience or melancholy of any given moment, falls within the almost liquid blackness of the night tapping its tuneless melody onto the glass roof of the White Hall. So named for its white awnings and beams the glass castle stands like a beacon amidst the dark. One might ask why I - a narrator of the humblest kind - may stop whatever it was that I was doing beforehand to tell you of the happenings of this shimmering place. One might wonder why I would care about a deserted castle of glass and white oak. One would be right to wonder for once this was a place of enchantment. Once, it lived.

They say - now-a-days - that this place, in all its beauty, is cursed. They say it is haunted, riddled with ghosts and other such foul spirits. They are wrong. Such a beauty could never be cursed, no matter what deed was done behind its doors. No, it is not ghosts that haunt its hallways. They are memories. Memories of what once was. The castle - though inanimate it may seem - is lonely, mourning the loss of the stories that it once had within its gentle grasp. All it can do now is remember.

Waiting in the desolate, dust-ridden hallways there lays the memory of sepia hair and off-white dresses. There was once colour here but it drained away as the stories disappeared, we - from the outside - may only see a glimpse of soft sepia toned hair drifting over a sad, faraway smile. We may only look upon the White Hall and hear but a whisper of its sad song, if we would care to listen. It waits for someone to free it from its sorrow, hear its story and walk in its halls but who would? For who would walk blindly into a place filled with superstition? No one. So here it stands, so here it waits.

She walks through the glass castle, a sad smile perched upon a pretty face. A memory; that is all she is now and all she will ever be, until someone seeks out her story. But wait...

She runs her fingers across the walls as she walks, light like vines spreading from the places she touches bringing life back to the gloom. If only for a moment, the halls are being brought to life or as much life as they can remember. Many years span between that life and this moment. Time can take its toll on the mind of any being. But the White Hall isn't a being now is it? Memories fuelled with such passion and emotion that they become visual. The hall can feel as if it is something that actually has a mind, even though it does not.

A light shines from her fingertips. Candles are lit making the glass glisten and glimmer in the night. Chandeliers rise up from their shattered space on the floor, some merely repair a chain or two, before lighting up the White Hall and creating a shimmering, almost ghost-like glow that emanates from the inside spreading out into the night. Not a word is spoken.

She paces down the corridor, slow and steady, lights now shining from beneath her bare feet. Carpets unroll, lavish but beautiful in blue, white and silver, paving the floor like freshly fallen snow. The cracked tiles mending themselves, making the uncarpeted area's smooth once again. The roots of weeds and overgrown plants pulling themselves back underneath before the tiles heal completely.

Her hair flows behind her leaving a trail of the same white and gold lights. Plants and vines grow up from pots as they slowly fix themselves turning the White Hall into an Eden. Golden leaves sprout from the stems, decorated with the blossoming of white flowers. The vines wrap themselves around the white awnings and hang from the ceilings in a leisurely, graceful manner. 

Her right hand next sweeps across the keys of a piano, their light flowing within its every fibre. A melody begins to play, soft and slow like a music box. Her face changes, a subtle change but noticeable nonetheless. The music reverberates around the castle sending its ghostly cadences into the night. Lilting, steadily bringing a solemn soundtrack to a rainy night of memories relived. 

She spins, slowly, gracefully as if floating. Small lights hover round as if following her intricate dance steps. Brighter and brighter the lights become, flowing off her like a river from a spring, bringing life to all it touches. She lets herself fall to the ground like a feather. The lights spread to every available corner as she meets the floor. Ghostly shadows of forgotten memories fill the air. People dance. The soft piano is met with an orchestra of sweet sound. She rises up. Standing and spinning with her arms raised high. She lets her face drift to the outside world and smiles. She's home again.

The lights begin to fade as the memory disappears, the magic undone. The dancers twirl to nothingness until nothing is left but the sepia-haired girl and a slowly fading piano tune. A small tear drips down her cheek as she slowly fades away, her sad smile back in place. When all trace is gone the castle seems to heave a sigh. The rain - still falling - makes an almost chime-like tune on the glass. A tune that spells out longing to the trained ear, a longing to go home, a longing to be remembered, a longing to be alive.

If one watches for long enough they may once more see a flash of sepia hair and an off-white dress, they may see the story unfold again and again. If one is willing they may yet hear the White Hall utter a small, soft, whispered cry...


"Symphony..."


^{Gorgeous Manipllustration by [Jitter].<3<3}



Written by [Chimes]. 977 Words.

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