The line went dead.
He left the mirror propped against the curb with the rest of the junk. But he kept the number. Not for tickets. For the memory that some calls—like some curtain calls—arrive thirty years too late. mirvish box office phone number
He knew the number. Every Torontonian did. But his father had written it in a shaky, recent scrawl, not the neat penmanship of his youth. Curious, Leo flipped the mirror over. The line went dead
A long pause. “Sonny,” the voice said, softer now. “That line hasn’t worked for ticket sales since ’96. That was the emergency line. For the stage door.” ” the voice said
“I’m sorry,” Leo stammered. “I found this number. My father—he kept a mirror.”