You return to the staircase.

You return to the staircase.

Listen for the song.

A guitar strums, your vision blurs. Spectral figures swirl back into the hall -- light and glowing. You hear voices in the stairwell below you, calling for someone to hurry up.

"I'm coming! Carmuna is never late for a party."

Carmuna? Her voice sounds much younger but otherwise the same -- this is the old woman from the Bazaar, long ago.

Where's the ghost party? I'm definitely going to that.

"All that I need lately, is my super..."

She sings to herself happily as she hurries down the stairs, long skirt held high so she doesn't trip in her glittery shoes.

You turn to watch her run by and see the hazy figure of a man in a Superbloc suit carrying a gift-wrapped package under his arm.

"Good evening, miss."

"Is this 'party' the listening party in Nestor's office? I've been called out last minute, but I have this gift for him. Could you give it to him before they play the music?"

He must be referring to the building's song.

Same package that I saw her put into the pneumatic tubes.

"Carmuna will take it for you. But she will also receive the carnation from your lapel in return."

Flirtatious, she plucks the flower from his suit and fixes it into her hair.

Picking up an asset in-theatre, without the target even knowing. Remarkable stagecraft.

"It looks far better on you than me, miss. Very fitting for the occasion."

He bows. The music fades, and the figures with it.

What were the Opera up to...

"That could be anything, don't take it!"

He gave her the bomb... he used her as an unknowing asset.

But it never went off.

Nice scheming, PROBABLE.

You've listened to enough Opera lore to recognise his voice -- this is the legendary Operant PROBABLE, still young.

Of course he's a man. All the greats are.

All one of them.

What is he doing here?

Playing for the Opera, undoubtedly. A tune on history's strings.

How did he get so famous?

He was the best. Even so, he is known only to Operants -- legends of PROBABLE are whispers between shadows.

"Hey, ghost."

"Carmuna! Can you see me?"

She pauses for a moment, tilts her head to the side. Shrugs.

So these aren't ghosts, Carmuna's still alive...

It's another one...

Yes, I'm aware.

Leave!

They seem nice.

They're see-through.

More ghosts! Ghosts!

Yes, I get it -- ghosts! Hush.

You're just going to be in here with the ghosts. Alright.

Yeah is this a bit fucked maybe?

Get the fuck out of here!

Tune in to the building's frequency.

You breathe in, tasting the building's flavour -- stale damp, chalk. Dust swims through your lungs. The building knows you, now. It will allow itself to be known in turn.

Figures appear in the hall. Hazy, human, laughing. They walk through you. Rushing up and down the stairs. They carry bunting, trays of food...

One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

With the ghostly figures comes a song -- a low and constant sound. The room ripples with noise, alive but blurred like a dream or a child's drawing.

What... is happening?

Perhaps the song is hypnotising you into sharing a memory with the building, an architectural daydream.

People pass you, chattering, formed in cloud by a slapdash maker -- some have both eyes on one side of their head, others are rendered limbless.

Ghost gäng. Huddle up.

Gäng don't fuck with ghosts. Scatter.

Must be an explanation. Need to see more.

A pair of hands passes you by, applauding.

A manifestation of psychic guilt, but whose?

Many spirits seem stronger than others -- their features clearer, their voices louder. The song rises as they pass. You could be onto something.

Spectral communists are trying to reveal immaterialist truths to me...

Some spirits seem stronger than others -- their features clearer, their voices louder. The song rises as they pass. Perhaps a side effect of their enhanced materialism.

Ghosts aren't real, this is bullshit.

The spirits mist and reform, swirling around you as they move. A floating arm passes through you, clutching a wine glass. Hurting them could be a challenge.

This building is having an existential crisis.

Look around.

The bassline flies straight past you, fading into nothing.

The faint drumbeat evades you, slipping away into the shadows.

So arhythmic that it may never have been a drumbeat at all.

Look more closely at the rubble.

Threadbare cloth sticking out from under the debris, trampled and chewed.

A banner dragged down one of the support beams. The ceiling stays in the air out of sheer will.

THE BUILDING DECLARED THE OLD PARTY REACTIONARY AND DID AWAY WITH THEIR IMAGE. DESTROY THE BANNERS, PRAISE THE REVOLUTION!

Stomp on the banner.

You mash your heel into a faded nose.

WOE AND FOOT TO THE TRAITORS!

Tread carefully.

Tiptoes. Treat it like ice.

Leave.

The hall towers above you.

Dust lies so thick on the staircase that you can feel it shifting underfoot.

You hear catches of the song, words, a man's voice and a guitar.

For a moment you hear a few words of a song, but it's gone before you catch what they are.

You hear faint snatches of what sounds like humming, gone before you can focus.