You whisper when the theater is silent. You rattle the seats, folding wood now rather than the old rows of stone benches. You stride across the stage, and when it's quiet enough, the actors swear they can hear your footsteps. A little uneasiness will teach them respect.
"Why are we performing a play about Osberht, rather than performing a Osberht play?" one of the actors puts in, a comic actor given to smart interjections at the worst moments.
The director gives the actor a look that suggests she's exercising all her patience. "We have four of Osberht's plays. One was his first effort for the stage, and it shows it. One was written for largely political reasons, and these days fewer and fewer people understand what it's about. One was thrown together for a tour in the provinces, and while people love it, everyone has seen it. We are not doing a rehash of a rehash of a play that was probably a rehash itself. And we did The Fall of Atlantis at Midsummer. Unless you have a lost Osberht script for us to perform, this is the next best thing."
Your plays have been beloved for a century. The cheering crowds who packed theaters during your lifetime still pack the new Odeon, and while some of your lines have become a bit mystifying, others are quoted by people who don't even remember that they came from a play.
The actors take their places. The young Osberht onstage steps forward more confidently, with the fey bravado of a playwright who knows that he only has one more scene left to play. And you watch, taking comfort in the knowledge that this much of your life, at least, will never be forgotten.
End