Their new home was a time capsule buried under dust.
Thick, expensive drapes weighed down by time and dust covered the windows. A chandelier with three working bulbs lit the entrance dimly, exposing abandoned webs that drooped between the ceiling and walls. The air was stale with a hint of perfume.
They opened the curtains, uncovering beautiful, ornate windows that lit a once opulent room of velvet arm chairs and wooden furniture lined in gold. The walls were wooden with decorative molding, and on one of them hung a tapestry with naked women lounging under a tree. They found formal dresses and tuxedos hanging in the armoire and a treasure of pearls and gems strung on golden strings in a jewelry box on the vanity. Next to the box was a crystal bottle.
She stood nervously in front of the mirror, wearing an exquisite gown. Diamonds adorned her neck against the perfume from the crystal bottle, the same perfume that lingered in the entrance the day they first stepped foot in the house. She was stunning, not like she had ever seen herself. She looked different, felt different. She was different.
He waited for her at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a tuxedo from the armoire. His heart leaped nearly out of his chest when she stepped onto the balcony and looked down at him. The moment was magical, familiar even.
The couple dined and got tipsy on expensive wine. They then walked into the big empty room where a phonograph waited. The needle lay on the record gently, anxiously, untouched.
A sweet waltz crackled from the horn and echoed throughout the ballroom while they danced, entranced. Other couples danced around them, seen faintly at first but appearing more real with every step. And as the needle reached the last curve of the groove on the record, the couples, all of them, faded away as though into oblivion.
And the house was once again empty, gathering dust.
But the perfume lingered.