There was this shop lot in a shady part of town. Didn't look too old, didn't look too brand new. This shop was the result of the imagination of the head writer in a mobile acting troupe. He had a wild imagination and loved to boss people around. Due to his stressful way of life, he took medications to keep his high blood pressure at bay. However, he started to misuse his drugs and mix them with others. This was when his ideas went overboard, became unintelligible and unacceptable for public viewing. He grew more violent and dictatorial as people tried to squash his imagination. His theater crew had a mutiny towards him and he was replaced by one of the junior writers, whom was quick at learning the ropes. He was dragged out of his trailer, yelling for his rights. Unfortunately, nobody could stand him any longer, and he was way past the point of second chances. He felt that he needed to be heard, and nobody was good enough to create his ideas into reality. What he didn't know was that his wild imaginations had been materializing somewhere in a secluded pocket of a town. After that incident with his theater crew, the head writer walked away and nobody knew what became of him.
It was years after that incident with the head writer, and a car drove past a dimly lit shop lot area in a secluded part of town. It was a starless night and heavy rain bombarded the roof of the car, with a family of two children inside. The parents were bickering about the state they were in and all the should have beens if only nothing went wrong. It was very late, and they were way past schedule. The children, both girls, a teenager and a seven year old, were sitting in the back of the car, getting very sleepy. All the shop lots that they passed by seemed to be closed, streetlights seemed to be furiously fighting off the urge to sleep. The car stopped in front of a corner shop lot that seemed to be remotely alive in that sleepy area, with faded cream walls peeling and cracking, warm light spilling from the two tiny windows.
Everyone in the car got out and splashed across the rainy road, into the doorway of the corner shop lot. They were greeted by an average looking middle aged woman, and led inside, away from the rain. It was much drier inside, with a slight draught. The inside of the shop reminded the sisters of their ballet studio, where the teenaged sister stopped taking lessons when she was a pre teen, feeling that she never really did fit in with her pudgy physique, and the younger sister stopped just a year ago, deciding that computers were more of her interest. From where they stood in the doorway, the studio seemed to be old and new. With older, creaky floorboards on the right side, and newer walls, furniture and wooden floors on the left half of the studio. The newer walls were painted the same color as the outside of the building, and there were piled stuff here and there inside the studio. It looked pretty decent, except for a few oddities, which didn't affect their opinions that the place was acceptable.
The owner, the middle aged woman, led them into a room to their left, which seemed to be a registering area, with a guest book on a wooden counter. The room didn't seem to be used often. The parents were in a deep conversation with the owner. After a while, the owner led the father to the bathroom and the mother stayed to fill in the guest book. It was turned over to a new page, since the previous pages seemed to be filled already. Bored, the sisters decided to have a look around the studio. The older half of the studio caught both of their curiosity and they went. The walls were a pale, grey wood, covered with faded black and white pictures of dancers, actors, and all sorts of performers. From where they came out of the register room, the older half of the studio was mostly walls, so they went up the only staircase within those walls. The stairway was covered with more of those pictures in old picture frames. Each wooden stair creaked beneath their steps, and the smell of the atmosphere reminded them lovingly of their grandmother's old home. There was nothing much on the landing that the stairs led them to, except more walls and several closed doors. The wooden hall was dimly lit and very roomy, which brought a chilly draught around the sisters' ankles. Since they didn't feel the curious desire for snooping around any longer, especially since the doors were closed, they went back downstairs.
Their mother was still in the same room, apparently done filling in the guest book. As the sisters went in, someone else was already there accompanying their mother. He was a very good looking young adult with black hair, who could easily pass as a rock star. With a simple white shirt on, his striking features were more noticeable. He was talking to their mother, and seemed extra friendly about it.
