The Opera House of the North Pole

In the heart of the North Pole, nestled between the bustling streets, stands an old theater, its walls filled with grandeur. The vibrant curtains hang in a state of elegance, their colors still bright regardless of the passage of countless performances. The theater, named “The Enchanted Stage,” is the centerpiece of this grand relic, a platform that has witnessed the rise and fall of emotions, the birth of dreams, and the applause of a thousand hearts.

The stage, adorned with frost-covered curtains, stands at the center. The wooden floorboards creak underfoot, their lacquered surface reflecting the dim light.

Rows of empty velvet seats fan out from the stage, their plush upholstery comfortable and inviting. The aisle, flanked by brass railings, leads toward the back where the exit doors stand like frozen portals. The ceiling, high above, is an awesome site, its glass reflecting the occasional flicker of the Northern Lights—a celestial dance that illuminates the space in ethereal hues.

Many evenings, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows through the windows, events would unfold within the hollow walls of “The Enchanted Stage”. The air grew louder with whispers, as if the theater itself was speaking, recounting tales of its centuries of glory.

From the wings, a lone figure would emerge.  Dressed in the attire of a choir director, the figure moved with grace across the stage, as if rehearsing for an audience that was no longer there. The whispers grew louder, harmonizing with the figure’s movements, creating a symphony of awe and wonder.

The figure was Lindele, the Director of the North Pole choir.  Lindele’s appearance was as timeless as the carols he conducted. His eyes held the depth of a thousand performances, and he began to sing lines from a Christmas carol created long ago. His voice, though soft, filled the theater, resonating with the walls that had often echoed with laughter and tears. He was the embodiment of the theater’s spirit, a reminder of the stories it had nurtured and the lives it had touched.

As Lindele raised his head and looked to the darkness of the seats, the stage seemed to come alive in his mind. The empty seats filled with the presence of an invisible audience, their applause a silent thunder only the theater, and Lindele, could hear. His eyes were closed and he rocked in time to music only he could hear.  His baton moved in almost magical arcs, conducting the choir in his imagination. As the son ended he bowed, his smile a beacon of hope for the future, a promise that the choir would always be a part of the North Pole.

The whispers faded as the night grew louder, and the figure retreated into the shadows, leaving the stage as empty as it had been. However, the theater was no longer silent; it was alive with the echoes of its past and the dreams of its future.