A Silent Rehearsal

The silence in this hall had a velvety weight. I blinked, realizing my fingers were no longer static; they could flex around the stem of the crimson blossom in my left hand. I gently turned my wrist, feeling the soft felt petals brush against my palm. In my right hand, the plush microphone felt primed for a whisper. I stood tall, letting the velvet hem of my cape rest gracefully against the floor. An unhurried breath escaped me—the curtain of my own life had quietly risen.