Dark Ballerina

Eleanor woke gasping.

Not like she'd had a nightmare—but like she'd run a mile inside one.

The sheets were twisted around her legs, soaked with sweat. Her feet ached. Deep, bone-heavy soreness, like she'd spent all night dancing barefoot on glass.

She blinked up at the ceiling. Pale light filtered through the curtains. The house was silent again.

Too silent.

No music.

Just the faint, metallic scent of… blood?

She sat up slowly.

And stared.

The towel she had used to cover the mirror was now crumpled on the floor—soaked at the corner. Red. Fresh. As if someone had wiped their hands clean.

Her eyes flicked to the vanity.

The music box was closed.

But her reflection wasn't her own.

It looked like her. Same curls. Same eyes.

But her face was too calm.

And she was already wearing the tutu.

Eleanor stumbled back, knocking over the chair.

The reflection didn't move.

Only stared. Pale. Silent.

Behind her in the mirror: shadows. A stage. That same sickly golden light from the dream—Christabel's dream.

Was it a dream?

Her hands were shaking now. She grabbed the vanity drawer and yanked it open.

Inside—another note. Folded neatly. Clean paper. Familiar handwriting.

"This is the rehearsal before the final show.

No more rewrites. No more escape.

All you have to do is dance."

Her mouth went dry.

She slammed the drawer shut. Marched toward the hallway.

But when she opened her bedroom door—

She was staring at the lake.

Still. Black. The reeds whispering.

And in the center, on a small rock…

The music box.

Open. Playing.

Just loud enough to make her legs twitch.