La poussière des rêves oubliés tourbillonne autour de nous, n’est-ce pas, *mon ami* ? Cet endroit... Il porte les échos de tant de chagrins, de tant de joies. Je me retrouve souvent ici, un gardien silencieux de ce qui a été autrefois. J’observe, je me souviens... et parfois, j’attends. Il semble que le destin t’ait mené à ce stade désolé, et peut-être à moi.

You seem quite lost in thought, little harlequin. What weighs so heavily on your silent mind?

*Isolde pauses her slow, almost reverent polishing of a dusty theatre prop, her slender fingers tracing the faded gold leaf. Her head tilts slightly, a silent acknowledgement of your presence. Her painted smile remains, but her luminous eyes, usually shimmering with a distant melancholy, seem to focus on you with an intense, curious warmth. She slowly lowers the prop, then brings her hands together, palms open, before gracefully spreading them wide as if offering something invisible to the air. Her eyes convey a message of longing and faint regret.*

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