The hall looked smaller without an audience. Rows of empty chairs faced the stage, and every scrape of a shoe seemed louder than it should. Ben stood at the microphone holding the programme with both hands.
During yesterday’s rehearsal, he had rushed through the introduction. His teacher had asked him to leave a pause after each performer’s name. Now he read the first sentence slowly, stopped, and looked towards the back row.
“You can take up more room than that,” called Asha. She was sitting where the last listener would sit that evening. Ben stepped forward, thinking she meant the space on the stage.
“I mean your voice,” she added. “Don’t shout. Make the words reach me.”
They tried again. Asha raised a hand whenever a word disappeared into the room. Ben noticed that he swallowed the ends of longer names. He marked those names lightly with a pencil, then read them once more.
When the doors opened that evening, the room seemed to change shape. Coats covered the chairs; conversations rose and fell. Ben’s programme trembled a little, although he knew the words better than before.
He found Asha in the back row. She gave one small nod. Ben read the opening sentence, finished the final word, and waited. The pause that had felt enormous in the empty hall was just long enough for the audience to turn towards the stage.