There is a phenomenon few know about, that graces the Canterlot Performance in the deep hours of night. The baritone performance of travelling stallions would cease, the crowd unleashing the required applause as the performers bow out with all the attempted grace such ponies can have. The murmur of small talk and criticism would simmer to nothingness, and as the cleaners swept through the aisles, cleared away the rubbish and ruin of the night, it would begin.
Many of the younger or newer staff members had ridiculed tales away with an sweeping hoof, having heard too many stories of pranks and hoaxes. The high, floating tone of the cello in the breeze would go unnoticed. Many of the staff had surrendered their efforts to find the very obvious hidden gramophone, while others still found the melody too ethereal for their ears. The midnight cleaning staff refreshed its ranks quite often.
It was as the cleaners shuffled out the door, elder stallions chided by the young ones for their naivety in believing in spooks and phantoms. With a sigh, the chief caretaker would flick the light switch with a hoof, hoping to prove one day what he felt in his gut. The mystery had persisted through his long service to the company, and would most likely hold until long after.
He swept out the door, as was his habit every night. The door sealed away the streetlights beyond, leaving the performance hall bathed in darkness. The cello persisted, lilting through the aisles and rows unheard, a song to no-one in particular. An hour would pass in sombre symphony, as it had every night before. Then, with little warning and of their own accord, the spotlights would flash onto the stage. The burning light rendered a slim, grey pony. Her mane floated in the breezeless air, eyes closed as she seemingly poured her very soul onto the cello strings.
It was a slightly longer time before the other participant would appear. Never entering via a door, she would simply become. Her very coat was ghostly-white, with luscious, red eyes. She was precisely the kind of phantom the younger children would doubt, yet she carried the flair of living memory on her face, watching in awe at the performance. The alabaster ghost settled into a seat, leaning on the chair in front of her to gaze out onto the performer, who wove a musical poem just for her.
The grey pony would seem to smile, eyes flicking open to meet with the rubies beyond, always finding them through the darkness. The cello would never stop, not now its purpose had been revealed. The mare did not make herself known to the cleaners, because this moment belonged to only one other pony. Her eyes would shimmer as she gazed beyond the aurora of the lights, to the enthralled mare in the seat beyond.
The performance would continue, never tiring. It kept perfect rhythm, yet it seemed to dictate its own. Time became liquid, rushing in some places, and slowing to a trickle in others. it had no meaning to the two ponies in the hall. At long last, however, the performance would cease. The grey pony looked beyond her stage to the seat, and yet found it empty. She leaned on her cello, as though the absence took her will to stand with it.
And yet, white legs would always lift her. Wrapping around from behind, they supported her when she required it most. She span on the spot, allowing the cello to fall silently onto the floor. Those eyes awaited her. Where they had an unavoidable allure at a distance, at such proximity they were deep wells. Memories floated within the chasms of her pupils, the only sign of the otherworld they came from.
The embrace was shared, forelegs supporting one another as the pair candidly danced upon the stage. No hoof fell out of place, no pirouette was undertaken with anything less than a haunting precision. The grey pony was spun, twirling on a hoof to find herself falling. A white leg caught her once more, dangling her as the ruby-eyed mare leaned over her. A final, infinite moment was shared between two timeless pairs of eyes. Hooves caressed manes as the distance closed, and lips met.
The front door opened, allowing the full light of a vibrant morning to flood into the hall. Lights flicked off, and the image of the two mares fell away like a mirage. The chief caretaker sighed, dropping his keys as he watched the place where the mares had been. Once more, he would be ridiculed that night.
He flicked on the lights properly, bathing the hall in the artificial ambiance of fluorescent lighting. Sighing, he began his first job of the day. With vim and vigour, he polished at a bronze plaque near the door. Stepping back, he idolised the names, sighing softly as he wandered off to prepare the hall for a hectic day.
The plaque had stood for as long as he had worked there. Engraved timelessly into its surface was a message to all that entered:
In memory of Octavia Philharmonica, and Vinyl Scratch:
"Ponies destined to create sweet symphonies together, will stay together."