It hangs there like a secret story just waiting to be told. Perhaps royal blue, deep crimson, hefty enough to soak up sound. It protects what is not yet ready to be seen rather than just conceals a stage.
A velvet curtain knows timing.
lights warm the air. For it, nevertheless, the crowd only sees collected, impeccable, motionless calm cloth. The curtain holds the fear so the rest of the world does not have to.
Though soft to the touch, velvet is still not weak. It blocks light. It controls focus. It sets the beginning of the story. Everything changes when it splits. Needing a few more seconds before exposure.
The velvety curtain reminds us that not everything has to be disclosed all at once. Some occasions call for ready. Some objectives call for defense before publication.
It then opens gradually, purposefully when the time is perfect, and what was hidden finally breathes in front of the world.