A long pause. “Sonny,” the voice said, softer now. “That line hasn’t worked for ticket sales since ’96. That was the emergency line. For the stage door.”
“A ghost,” the voice whispered. “Or the man who gave your mother two tickets to The Phantom of the Opera on the night she should have been home with you. She left her lipstick on my dressing room mirror. Tell your father I’m sorry.” mirvish box office phone number
Leo had been born on April 15, 1996.
His mother, a woman who left when he was three, was a ghost he never bothered chasing. But his father had kept this mirror facing the wall. Why? A long pause
Leo’s throat tightened. “Who am I talking to?” That was the emergency line
Leo almost hung up. But then a click. A live voice, old and crackling: “Back alley window. You’re late.”