They say the Polyphonic Cabaret first appeared in London's interbellum twilight between the wars. And yet, there are older rumors:
- An abandoned hall in Philadelphia, 1861.
- A forgotten ballroom in Lisbon, 1910.
- A cellar in Paris, long before.
The story never changes. A vacant place, worn thin by time. A door appearing overnight. A heart upon a hat leading the way. Or an invitation—sometimes tucked inside a long-forgotten coat pocket, or even waking to a whispered voice left over from a dream.
Those who find it do not speak casually of it afterward. The Cabaret is not a show. It is a refuge. A sanctuary stitched between moments.
It comes only when needed most—when the night grows too long, and the world feels too unkind.