On the highest shelf of a storage room, a ballerina in a perfect relevé, balanced on her toes despite missing part of her tibia. It had been a couple of years since that porcelain figurine had spun accompanied by the music that used to come from the base of her box. She could glimpse the moon or the morning flowers through the tiny window overlooking the yard. She was grateful but simply wanted to fulfill her purpose in this world: to dance.
Instead of crushing her spirits, nostalgia somehow strengthened the memories of her grand movements, intertwined with the sweetness of the music. Even between the dust, her worn paint, and the neglect, she only wanted to dance.
No one could determine what started the fire, perhaps the light streaming through the small window combined with the heat of that summer afternoon, or some chemical reaction from the oils and paints scattered across the dirty storage room floor. Whatever the cause, it made the fire spread quickly throughout the room. It reached the left side of the shelf, causing the supports to give way and sliding the delicate porcelain figure until she collided with the furniture on the other side: old lunchboxes, toys, a couple of glue jars, and tools crashed to the floor.
But the lightness of the porcelain of the sweet girl in the most perfect posture managed to reach the other end, delivering a forceful blow right to the winding key of her rusty mechanism. The action released kinetic energy in the form of something resembling Tchaikovsky, and among the smoke, the sound of burning wood, metal, and paper, the ballerina began to move. She realized that within each second there were many days, that this was what she had been waiting for. Never had she been so certain—dancing and spinning on her axis was the definition of freedom. She danced and felt pure happiness.
Just at the beginning of the second act, the right support of the shelf gave way, the ballerina completed half a turn more, and the music stopped.
Mixpov 