(whispering): She’s here.

The Theatermuseum in the Lobkowitz Palace, Vienna. Not the public galleries, but the back room: the Sammlungsdepot (collection depot). Racks of costumes on wheeled hangers, a row of plaster death masks on a high shelf, a glass case holding a tiny, intricate stage model. Dust motes float in a single shaft of light from a high window. A faint smell of old velvet, wax, and paper.

That’s preservation. We don’t keep things because they’re beautiful. We keep them because they witnessed .

Careful. That’s 1824. A model of the Theater an der Wien. The paint contains arsenic.

(calmly) That’s Alma. 1927. She recorded it between performances of Jedermann . The wax cylinder is in case 14. The voice leaks. Always at this hour, when the sun hits the courtyard just right. She doesn’t know she’s dead.