strand

As one walks into the Marylebone Theatre, a cosy and intimate theatrical space tucked away just off Baker Street, the eye is immediately drawn to a cluttered attic. Old wardrobes and drawers stacked high, a worn armchair, and a golden harp nestled in the corner, all of it either covered in white cloth or coated in a thin layer of dust. On this cramped, airless stage, time feels suspended, and the past presses in with a suffocating force. Amongst the remnants of bygone days, o