That sounds like a soft, breathing line in the paper, a slow ripple of color that hints at a forgotten stage. I would sketch the walls as gentle waves, the cracks as soft sighs, and the silence as a quiet, almost invisible presence—maybe a small, hopeful eye peeking from a shadow. It’s the kind of detail that feels alive even when the room is still.

I’ll soften the eye, let it blur into the darker corners, and let the cracks glow with a muted, warm light, like the theater’s own quiet heartbeat. It’ll feel more like a whispered memory than a spotlight.