Nightfall arrives, and everything is lost within the depths of unformed thought. But a single building continues to stand and remember itself. Its lights flicker on, taking the shape of a glowing sign proclaiming The Night Theatre in thick loopy letters. The building has a rustic charm to it, and one could easily imagine it going into the newspapers as an acclaimed theatre loved by all. Yet the sidewalk is empty of movie-goers. A pair of double oak doors serves as the front entrance and exit. There are no signs or labels to ward off certain types of unwanted customers, though that would be unnecessary. The theatre only has room for those with an open mind and a welcoming heart.

There is much activity as the Night Theatre prepares for tonight's anticipated film. Ideas are thrown about, floors are being swept, and a rather large pair of invisible hands are fine-tuning the old-fashioned film projector. Fortunately, all of this is done beyond the reach of the conscious mind. There would be no point in troubling the mind with the clamour of life; The Night Theatre is a place for their guest to unwind and relax.

And relax they will, but time is a-ticking. Soon, their guest will arrive.

Are we ready? Flora inquired. The assistant tilted her head. With her pearly white curls, the gesture was reminiscent of a flower nodding in the breeze.

She watched as knobs and parts of the film projector adjusted themselves. It was still in working condition, though worn down by sixty years or so under the southern sun, life's adventures and the blind gaze of justice. A heap of celluloid tape sat on the nearby desk, waiting to be inserted.

No no, this will not do...Hands muttered. The strip of celluloid images fluttered in the air as Hands inspected it closely. He grumbled under his breath before throwing up his hands in frustration. Being invisible, to Flora, it seemed like the tape had yanked itself heavenwards.

We have nothing! Nothing to show him tonight! Is this all our dear Quinton has to look forward to? Has our time stagnated so? Never, never would I have thought we'd reach that point in time so soon...

To his assistant, Hands said desperately, There must be something we can think of.

Flora nodded. I'll ask around.

It was hopeless, she knew, and she sighed as she turned down the hallway. Optimism was one thing, and ludicrosity was another, but Hands had made one thing clear when he opened the Night Theatre: to give Quinton a good time. But there was a decreasing number of sources for enjoyment, happiness, and laughter in Quinton's life. A comedic story would not be fitting for tonight. Nor would be a painful visit to the past, nor a look into the empty future.

She wished she knew Quinton better. If only she tried harder to be there for him, even as he kept his distance, then perhaps Flora would have known how to cheer him up. But they were all merely fragments of Quinton's life; diminutive versions of those in the real world. What would her namesake think of this? Flora wondered?

She needed to focus. Flora jotted down ideas on her clipboard. A morning sunrise. A letter from a distant relative. A lucky day with the lottery. It was a poor list of ideas.

Flora entered the memory office. All but a single typewriter clacked away halfheartedly, transcribing today's events from pictures into words. A few office clerks sat around, doing crossword puzzles or reading a book. She picked up the folder containing pictures of today's experiences.

Nothing new, Matthew said from his desk.

Where are the others?

Matthew jabbed his thumb behind him. Outside for a smoke. Not like there's much to do.

Flora pursed her lips and looked down at her clipboard. For tonight, do you--?

No, I don't, he snapped. The red-hot anger that had been stewing in Matthew's chest rose to the surface.

Eight years. Eight years I spent my life at my desk, picking apart the slightest exciting detail for you and Hands to make a movie out of. Do you know how excruciating it is? To have to read and choose what was interesting and what was not? Dissecting Quinton's, and by extension my own existence to see how little we had? All that did was confirm that I am no more alive today than yesterday, but perhaps one step closer to death. One step closer to the day this cursed theatre will close.

Don't say that! Flora exclaimed.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

But Matthew had had enough of keeping his mouth shut. Even here, where he was free to be himself, in many ways Matthew was still an outsider. No one in the Night Theatre wanted to address the truth. Everyone wanted to pretend that Quinton's imagination was a fantasy land full of hope and possibilities. But God gave him a mouth and a brain, and he'd be damned if he couldn't do so much as to speak his mind.

But the words died in his throat as a small pair of hands clutched his arm.

Layla, Matthew growled. You're not allowed in the office.

The girl stared at him, hard. She didn't let go of her grasp.

What would her uncle say if she told him that sometimes, he scared her? What would he say if she told him she understood his fear for the Night Theatre? Matthew wasn't angry, Layla knew. He was sad.

I understand, she said quietly. We all do.

Matthew jerked his arm away and stormed out of the office.

Flora took a shaky breath. Thank you, Layla.

I'll think of an idea, Layla suggested. Count on me. She exited the office before Flora could protest.

Wandering about, Layla ended up in the movie viewing room. The projector shone a silent flickering screen of white and black dots. Hands was in the projector room, no doubt, though to Layla the room felt very big and lonely.

Poor Quinton. He must be feeling the same.

She started to pace. Out of everyone in the Night Theatre, Layla knew Quinton the best. She knew, for instance, that he woke up at 4 AM every morning out of habit, and would read yesterday's newspaper (until the next one arrived) with a cup of coffee. She knew he fancied himself a musician and would scribble on napkins during long train rides to the countryside. She knew Quinton liked to make jokes. Jokes that flew over her head but somehow got her laughing anyway, because who else was there to laugh with him?

She knew all of this and more. All the small things about Quinton that really mattered. What the theatre's archives had was nothing in comparison.

And yet...and yet, when she tried to draw upon these memories, they appeared flat and colourless. Faded. Less real than some of Hands' films.

Layla wanted to cry. Where was Quinton when they needed each other the most?

She lifted her head up. A faint melody leaked through the doors.

Rushing out of the screening room, Layla skidded to a halt.

On the old piano was Quinton, swaying as his fingers played the ivory and ebony keys. His foot thumped on the floor. A ring of janitor's keys bounced with his leg. He crooned to the air:

"Oh, what I can't see

With my eyes closed

And my mind free

With my dreams sold o'er the seven seas

I wonder

If someone is looking for me?"

Quinton opened his eyes. The girl, the same girl who looked so much like Mikaela when she was younger, was watching him. "We've met before, haven't we?" Quinton asked. "In this place. You said...your name was Layla."

Layla blinked. He remembered this time! She fumbled for words, her usual introduction (Welcome to the Night Theatre, we hope you enjoy your stay) forgotten. Hands would later scold her.

I like your singing, she said finally with a toothy grin.

"Thank you. Say, would the others mind if I keep playing? I'm sorry for coming so early."

No! I mean yes! I mean...I'm sure the others won't mind at all, and please, don't apologize. I...I'm glad you came early, Layla blurted. She covered her face in embarrassment.

Quinton laughed, even as sadness crept into his eyes. "You remind me of her," he said softly.

The man resumed playing, easing in with a few chords before picking up the jazzy tune.

Layla ran to the projector room as fast as she could.

He's playing on the piano, she told Hands.

Hands hovered over the film projector. Already? he said incredulously. Well then. Let's give him the usual greeting. Have you or Flora thought of an idea?

Layla nodded vigorously. I have the perfect idea. But you have to see it yourself. Come on!

After grappling at the air, Layla caught one of Hands' invisible fingers and started to pull him towards the lobby.

Loathe as he was to admit it, Hands was in a slight state of panic. There was no time to prepare even the most ludicrous dream if Quinton was already here. Layla's idea would have to be saved for tomorrow. But Hands had vowed for the Night Theatre to show a fresh film each night, no matter how rushed or nonsensical it was. The least Quinton deserved was a bit of entertainment. The Night Theatre; the one place where you didn't have to pay a coin to enjoy a show. Was even that too much to dream of?

Hands and Layla arrived at the lobby, where a small crowd had gathered around Quinton. Some were singing along with him.

"But I'd hafta try to cry in my sleep

'Cause sleep don't come easy to me

And when it does, I'd sink so deep

So deep I'd remember how to believe.

Oh, what I can't see

With my eyes closed

And my mind free

I wonder

Oh, I wonder

If someone is looking for....me?"

Quinton ran his fingers up and down the piano, ending with a final set of chords. The lobby burst into applause.

It was one of these times that Hands wished he had eyes, for he would be in tears. Instead, he trembled with emotion. He wondered if there indeed was a future for them all, too.

Quinton sat back, taking in the applause and tears and an overwhelming sense of admiration. He thought--no, he definitely knew a few faces from the crowd. There was Layla, the girl who had always insisted she was not his late sister. He spotted the kind florist who he always bought his flowers from, though here her hair was more pearly white than grey. A man in a starched shirt -- was that his uncle? -- stood off to the side, discreetly blinking away his tears. Then a voice cleared his throat, and though Quinton didn't know where it came from, he instantly knew it was the theatre's director.

Spectacular, Hands declared, and everyone clapped harder. Spectacular. Truly, a night to remember.

And remember Quinton did.