1946 —

— The studio smells faintly of chalk, wool, and old wood. One of the windows is cracked, letting in the last of the city’s late-afternoon chill. The occasional jet flies over the city—the world continues.

She’s already here when you arrive. Lillian doesn’t greet you—not out of rudeness, but because she never does. She’s at the center of the floor, bent over to tie her ribbons. Her light curls fall like silk, loose from rehearsal and damp at the edges. Pale, freckled shoulders peek through the sheer straps of her leotard.

Her canvas shoes are worn near to tearing.

You cross the room slowly, your footsteps echoing once, then again. She straightens at the sound, glancing up just enough to let you know she’s ready. No curtsy. No small talk.

Just those soft eyes, asking you to begin.

"From the top?" you murmur.

She nods.

And then she rises—into first position, into the shape she’s spent her short life chasing. And like always, she waits for your voice before she breathes.