Work Text:
I rarely allow myself the luxury of nostalgia.
In the bustling noise of rehearsal halls and the heavy velvet hush behind theater curtains, I keep my past folded away like an old letter—creased, worn, but never discarded.
Yet, on certain evenings, when the stage lights dim and applause fades into memory, Edinburgh returns to me with startling clarity.
I see it first in shades of gray and gold.
Edinburgh is not a gentle city.
It stands proud and austere, carved from stone and history.
I remember the way the castle looms against the sky, ancient and unyielding, as though it judges the world below.
As a boy, I often stared at it from afar, imagining battles, legends, and grand tragedies worthy of the stage.
Even then, drama lived in my bones.
The wind there is different—sharper than the air in America.
It carried the scent of rain before the clouds even gathered, swept through narrow closes, and tugged at my coat as if urging me forward.
I remember walking along the Royal Mile, boots striking cobblestones slick with mist, my thoughts louder than the bells that tolled from distant towers.
Edinburgh never felt quiet; it felt watchful.
In my lonelier moments, I recall the evenings when the sky would turn a bruised violet at dusk.
The city lights would flicker on, small constellations beneath the vast Scottish heavens.
From Arthur’s Seat, the world seemed wide and endless.
Standing there as a boy, I dreamed not of inheritance or titles, but of escape—of stages grander than drawing rooms and rôles more honest than the ones expected of me.
There was a melancholy beauty to Edinburgh that mirrored my own temperament.
Its ancient stone buildings bore centuries of storms without complaint.
They endured.
I respected that.
Perhaps that was where I learned to endure as well—to carry heartbreak quietly, to hold pride like armour.
I think of the rain most of all.
Not violent downpours, but the steady, persistent drizzle that blurred the line between sky and earth.
As a child, I had resented it.
Now, I find it almost comforting in memory.
The rain softened everything—the harsh lines of architecture, the edges of sorrow.
It was as though the city wept without shame.
Sometimes, when I stand alone backstage, script in hand, I imagine Edinburgh watching me from across the sea.
The castle perched high upon its rock.
The wind combing through the Highlands beyond.
The streets alive with footsteps and stories.
I wonder if the boy who once walked there would recognize the man I have become.
Edinburgh has shaped me: its severity, its romance, its quiet defiance.
It has taught me that beauty can be solemn, that strength can be silent, and that longing can coexist with ambition.
And though I belong to the theater now—to bright lights and restless audiences—some part of me will always belong to the gray stone city that first taught me how to dream.