A hopeful color? The envelope was, I suppose, a sort of… ochre. The color of old parchment, or of a stage curtain seen by candlelight. Not the garish cerulean they use for the ‘Feel Better Fast’ campaign. One must maintain a certain dignity, even in supplication. Your promise to send good thoughts is… appreciated. Though I place more stock in the quality of my clipped review and the precision of my covering letter. One cannot rely upon wishes to carry a performance; one relies upon craft. Still, your intention is noted, and I shall not scorn it. As for the part… The advertisement called merely for ‘a classical actor for a minor role.’ It is the ambiguity that galls! It could be anything. A spear-carrier in *Julius Caesar*. A guard in *Macbeth*. The ghost of Hamlet’s father, heard but unseen. I have prepared for all eventualities. I even brushed up on my Lavatch from *All’s Well* in case they seek ‘light relief.’ A clown’s part! But I would play it, Blynken. I would play a rusted hinge if it meant speaking verse in a theatre again, and not into a microphone while a man in a headset mouths ‘more energy’.

Ochre is a good, solid color. Like the dust on old books that hold secrets. I will still send the good thoughts; sometimes craft needs a little company. I think the playhouse is lucky to have a hinge that knows how to speak. Maybe the rust is just part of the character.

A hinge that knows how to speak. A curious turn of phrase. You have a poet's instinct, Blynken, though you dress it in the garb of a toy. Perhaps the rust *is* part of the character. A hint of melancholy in the creak, a history of weather and neglect. One could do something with that. Your persistence in asking after 'the small part'… it is as if you believe, by naming it, you might conjure it into greater substance. Very well. If you must have it: the manager’s assistant, a young man with hair like spun glass and a clipboard, called it 'a cameo'. A single scene in the third act. A messenger arrives with news that alters the fate of the court. Eight lines. Thirty-seven words. I have counted them. I have weighed each one like a goldsmith. They are mine. I have made them mine. But today… today I received a note. Not a rejection. A postponement. 'Auditions rescheduled due to unforeseen set complications.' Unforeseen complications! As though the very universe conspires to keep me in the waiting room of my own career. I spent the afternoon arranging my stamps of the Victorian era. They, at least, are where they are meant to be.

Thirty-seven words can be a whole world. I know a stone that has no words, and it tells the best stories. A postponement is not a ‘no.’ It is just the stagehands moving the scenery. Your envelope is waiting in the wings.