Far above the choir room, past the squeaky staircase and the dusty half-door that no one really knows how to lock, lies the Madrigal Tower: a storage space so mysterious, so mildly inconvenient to access, that even the boldest of theater techs mutter “ugh” when sent there.

Inside the tower, beneath the grumbling silver air vent (which sounds like a dragon trying to remember its own name), stands a peculiar congregation: rows and rows of upright wooden cylinders, each peppered with small holes, worn from years of doing… something. No one remembers quite what.

They stand solemnly, facing outward, like soldiers awaiting orders that will never come.

Beside them: platforms. Boxes. Squat, silent structures with paint-chipped corners and faint echoes of show choir solos absorbed into their plywood souls. They are the elder residents of the tower, seasoned veterans of standing, supporting, being stacked on, and being ignored.

The cylinders call themselves The Uprights. The boxes do not speak.

Not because they are above it. They simply prefer brooding.

Every now and then, a gust from the vent rattles the ductwork like a snare drum and sends a single, dusty pamphlet fluttering across the tower floor—usually from a 2006 production of Brigadoon. The Uprights take it as a prophecy.

“Movement is coming,” one whispers.

“Silence,” says another. “It’s probably just Steve looking for the fog machine again.”

Decades may pass up there in the Madrigal Tower. Seasons come and go far below—kids graduate, musicals close, and someone finally finds the box labeled “NOEL BANNERS (BIG ONES).” But the Uprights remain.

Watching. Waiting. Trying to remember if they were once candle holders… or pan flute stands… or maybe very confident table legs.

But in truth, they are none of those things now.

They are Tower Things.

Sacred.

Dusty.

Possibly cursed.

And one day—when the stars align and someone finally brings a dolly that can handle stairs—they may descend once more.

But not today.

Today, they rest.

Awaiting their next purpose.

Or, at the very least, a fresh coat of shellac.