Henry leaned back, resting his hands in his lap. He was quiet for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words. Then, he finally spoke.
“Years ago,” he began, his gaze fixed on the empty screen, “there was a woman who worked here. Her name was Clara.”
I listened closely, sensing the deep emotions behind his words.
“She had a way of drawing you in,” Henry said, a gentle smile appearing on his face. “Not by being flashy or seeking attention, but by leaving a quiet, lasting impression, like a beautiful melody that stays with you. Clara was a part of this place, and this is where our story began.”
As he spoke, I could almost see it, the old theater bustling with life, the flickering light of the projector casting soft shadows on Clara’s face, their whispered conversations between films.
“One day, I asked her to see a morning movie with me on her day off,” Henry recalled. “She said yes.”
He paused, and for a moment, his expression darkened. “But she never showed up.”
“What happened?” I asked, leaning in.
“I later found out she had been fired,” he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. “When I asked the manager for her contact information, he refused and told me to stay away.” He shook his head. “I never understood why. She was just… gone.”
Henry sighed deeply, glancing at the empty seat beside him. “I moved on. I got married, built a quiet life. But after my wife passed away, I started coming back here… hoping just hoping to see her again.”
A sharp pain filled my chest. “She was the love of your life.”
“She was,” Henry said softly. “And she still is.”
“What do you remember about her?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Only her name,” he admitted. “Clara.”
“I’ll help you find her.”
The weight of my promise settled heavily on me. Clara had once worked at Lumière Cinema, but the person who fired her was my father, Mark Donovan. A man who had always kept his distance from me, barely acknowledging my presence.
Preparing to face him felt like stepping into a battle I wasn’t sure I could win. I chose a classic blazer, smoothed my hair into a neat ponytail, and made sure every detail of my appearance was polished.
Mark Donovan valued order and professionalism qualities he not only lived by but expected from everyone around him.
At the theater entrance, Henry stood holding his hat, his expression a mix of calm and unease. “Do you really think he’ll talk to us?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I admitted, pulling my coat tighter around me. “But we have to try.”
As we walked toward the cinema’s office, I found myself sharing more than I intended, maybe as a way to steady my nerves.
“My mother had Alzheimer’s,” I began, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “It started when she was pregnant with me. Some days, she knew exactly who I was. Other days, she looked at me like I was a stranger.”
Henry listened closely. “That must have been really hard.”
“It was,” I admitted. “Especially because my dad, Mark, decided to put her in a care home. I understand why, but over time, he became more distant. After my grandmother passed, I ended up taking care of everything. He provided for us financially, but emotionally… he was never really there.”