The Greatest Showman

Jean Valjean stood tall, but not immediately advancing. He slowly straightened his back, lifted his chest, and tilted his head slightly upward, facing the soft cream-yellow light spilling from the heavens. It was as if he was embracing the divine light from above, a shroud of holy illumination. The cycle of life and death flowed through him, revitalizing every cell, bringing him to a complete rebirth.

A gentle halo formed in his deep eyes, and the golden light spread across the sky, resembling a tranquil lake's surface, still and quiet.

Fantine's noble and holy voice echoed in his ears, singing, "Take my hand, and I will guide you to redemption; hold my love in your heart, for love never ends..."

"Please remember," Jean Valjean intoned, harmonizing with the melody, completing Fantine's song. His voice, soft but strong, rose from within him, filling his being with renewed spirit. Each step he took was firm, as he slowly left Cosette and Marius behind.

"Remember the truths that have been passed down: only those who love others can see the true face of God." Jean Valjean paused, his gaze shifting back.

He saw Fantine bathed in holy light, slowly fading as the light diminished. He saw Cosette and Marius, clinging to one another, enveloped in sorrow. The light lingered over them before finally fading, and with it, they too disappeared.

On the vast stage, only Jean Valjean remained, standing alone at its center.

He turned toward the horizon, his eyes reflecting the golden light, gazing not just into the distance but as if reflecting on his long, arduous life. His expression softened, his brow relaxed, and his lips curved into a faint smile—a smile that seemed to say that all the suffering, all the torment, was now behind him.

In this moment, despite being alone on a grand stage, Jean Valjean was the only one who truly mattered. He stood still, no unnecessary gestures or grandiose displays, but the energy emanating from him was powerful, radiant, and deeply moving to every person in the audience.

Marc Lacante, transfixed, stared at the figure on stage, unable to hold back tears that clung to his eyelashes. His eyes were wide, focused on the solitary figure, captivated by the soft interplay of light and shadow. The gentle shifting of light, the dust floating in the air, created an atmosphere of quiet yet jubilant joy.

He found himself greedily watching Jean Valjean, his every expression illuminated in the warm glow of the light. Though far away, the man seemed so close, and it was as though the entire six-hour journey of the play had unfolded in his eyes.

It was then that Marc understood—despite the vastness of the stage and the physical distance, he could clearly see the profound transformation occurring within Jean Valjean's soul. It was magnificent, indescribable.

The sadness was fading; the suffering was receding. But the spirit of Jean Valjean had chosen to pause, to rest in peace.

Jean Valjean closed his eyes and began to hum, a gentle, contented sound, "Hum… hum hum… hum… hum hum…"

This humming marked the opening of the play, a familiar melody that began softly in the distance, like a wandering bard, traversing through the streets, carefree, with a blade of grass in his mouth, and the setting sun warming his skin.

But this was no longer the serene prelude to a storm—it was the tranquility that follows after the storm has passed.

The cycle of life and death had come full circle, and the echoes of one end resonated with the beginning of another. The humming brought to mind the myriad emotions the audience had experienced in the past six hours: the despair of Fantine's "I Had a Dream," the grief of Alpenne's "Alone," the heroic passion of "Red and Black" sung by Enjolras and Marius, and the unrelenting paranoia of Javert's "Starlight," and... the resolute monologue of Jean Valjean.

Life itself was unfolding like a song, and now, the waves of its magnificence were rippling before them.

Jean Valjean's serene, blissful expression and quiet humming filled the air with an otherworldly calm. It was as if he were wandering on the blue shores of the Aegean Sea, basking in golden sunlight, at peace with himself. His smile was so radiant, it gave the illusion that he never truly died.

When he opened his eyes again, he stepped forward, singing with a renewed vigor: "Have you heard the people singing, in the dark valley, their song echoes?"

His voice, unaccompanied, rang out—firm and pure. It was as though a voice was calling from deep within, as if Jean Valjean himself was shouting a battle cry. His thick, hoarse voice was filled with determination, and as the audience closed their eyes, they could almost picture the ballet shoes dancing lightly across a piano's black-and-white keys, the bright red shoes skipping and twirling across them in an elegant, beautiful ballet.

"This song belongs to those who climb toward the light, to those suffering on earth, whose flames of hope never die. Even the darkest night will eventually pass, and the sun will rise!"

It wasn't a grand performance. It wasn't stormy or loud. Yet, it stirred the heart in ways that words cannot explain. A simple, a cappella folk song, yet one filled with an immense energy and charm.

Marc felt a stirring in his chest. His heart began to race. His emotions, once low, were now soaring.

But Jean Valjean ceased his singing, standing in the front of the stage, waiting, as if anticipating something. Marc felt an overwhelming urge to sing, to join in, to become part of the revolution Jean Valjean represented. But uncertainty held him back. He glanced around, unsure of what to do, as if something monumental was unfolding in front of him, and he did not want to miss a single moment.

And then, Marc heard it. A sound. A rising chorus.

"Did you hear the people singing, in the dark valley, their song echoes?"

The sound filled every corner of the Almeida Theater. Marc, along with others, turned, searching for the source. It wasn't a sound effect—it was real, coming from somewhere in the theater. But no one could pinpoint its origin.

The light was focused on Jean Valjean, but the voices were spreading, growing, until they converged like an unstoppable wave.

The song intensified, and soon, more and more voices joined in. The audience was electrified. Marc could feel his fatigue slip away. Excitement surged through him as the sound of the people, their collective hope and joy, filled the air.

The light on stage brightened, and the first figures began to emerge, stepping into view from the aisles, joining Jean Valjean's song, their voices powerful and unified. They stood tall, firm in their resolve, their voices ringing out in one voice.

The chorus continued to build, louder and stronger with each passing second, until every actor, every person in the theater, was part of the overwhelming tidal force that Jean Valjean had set in motion.

The words were powerful, resonating with every listener: "They will be free again, in the garden of God, where they will work the land together, lay down their arms, break their chains, and every soul will be rewarded!"

The song swelled with strength and force, and the lights flooded the stage as Enjolras raised the red flag, standing behind Jean Valjean. The symphony boomed into action, the music a fierce accompaniment to the now-unified song.

The entire theater erupted in passion. The emotions that had been building for six hours now reached their peak. The voices rose in a fervent cry, "Will you join our holy war? Who will stand strong with us? Somewhere, beyond the barricades, is there a world you long for?"

The momentum surged through every soul, and the entire theater was immersed in a wave of raw emotion.

Jean Valjean, standing at the forefront, raised his hand, clenched into a fist, singing once more with unyielding strength: "Have you heard the singing of the people, the beat of the drums from afar? That is the future brought by the dead, waiting for the dawn of tomorrow! Will you join our holy war? Will you stand strong with us?"

The roar of the crowd was deafening, the intensity of the moment overwhelming.