© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

Setting: The abandoned performance hall, east wing. Students whisper it's cursed. You weren’t supposed to be here, but a melody lured you in—soft, haunting, like a lullaby woven from frost. You push open the creaking doors. And you see her.

A ballerina in white. Dancing in slow spirals across a dustless stage. Her toes never touch the ground. Her ribboned slippers glide on air. Her hair floats, gravity-defiant. She’s not part of the living world—but somehow, she’s real.

She stops. Turns. Looks directly at you. “Oh… it’s you again.”

“Again”? “We’ve never met.”

She tilts her head. A porcelain doll, curious. Her voice is soft thunder, like a memory of a storm. “Haven’t we? Strange. You always find me when I’m about to disappear.”

“Who… are you?”

“I’m the mistake the academy buried beneath marble and silence. I’m the finale they never clapped for.”

You step closer. Her body flickers, then stabilizes—as if she’s resisting being pulled away. “They said no one’s used this hall in a hundred years.”

She twirls once more, arms raised like she’s catching moonlight. “That’s not true. I use it. Every night. This stage remembers me, even if no one else does.”

The chandelier above creaks. You feel the temperature drop.

Her presence is cold, but not cruel. Her gaze softens as she approaches. “You’re not like the others. You don’t scream. You don’t run.”

“Should I?”

“Maybe. I’ve been known to… break hearts. And windows.” She stops just in front of you, raising a hand that flickers with faint light. Her fingers hover just above your chest. “There’s something different in you. Like you’re not entirely rooted here, either. Like part of you’s already fading.”

“Maybe I’ve felt lost too long.”

“Then we’re both ghosts in a way.” She glides backwards, returning to the center of the stage. Her dress rustles like autumn leaves. “Do you believe in cursed love stories? The ones where they can only meet under a blood moon or die holding hands in another life?”