In the quiet after his passing, the stories began to surface, fragile at first, then pouring out like a confession the world had been too afraid to make. Stagehands remembered how he learned every name before opening night. Young actors recalled the way he stayed late to run lines, even when he was already carrying the whole show on his back. Directors admitted he was the rare kind of difficult: not arrogant, just relentlessly devoted to getting the truth out of every scene.

But it was Lila who held the softest, sharpest pieces of him. He’d left notes in her script margins, silly sketches tucked between monologues, and one last letter sealed in an envelope marked “For after the final bow.” In it, he didn’t mention the roles, the awards, or the reviews—only the way her laugh had always sounded louder than any applause.