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As a major donor to the refurbished opera, a move you made as you brought your company to the town, you have your own box, typically given over to employees, but occasionally you enjoyed the box for yourself, to experience the performance in as close to a private setting as possible. You are young, having made a fortune on the back of your product developed while you were in college. You live alone in your penthouse, with a driver and house keeper your only company. You noticed her as you were heading in for the curtain call, visible outside through the grand glass fronted entry hall. A comment to one of your guests gave you the commonly held history: she was always there, every performance, standing outside the opera house, watching the people come and go, the glitter, the glamour, the spectacle of it all. And as the last curtain call was made, and the people and their finery disappeared into the inner auditorium, she'd walk away. Her ragged dirty clothes testament to her distance from the fantasy within. At the close of the performance, as you walk out towards your driver, you see her, standing in the shadow of a tree, watching the people go. A far away look in her eye. She's small, thin, with dirty, with possibly vibrant red hair under a ragged wool cap. Her clothes are worn and dirty.