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.

The End of "The Nightly Montage" short story

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