Dark Ballerina

Margaret had warned her.

"Salt the doorways. Don't look in the mirrors after dark."

Eleanor had done the first. She hadn't done the second.

Not last night.

The music had stopped, but the mirror hadn't.

She'd looked.

Just once.

Just long enough.

And now—

She woke with a start.

The sheets were twisted beneath her. Her legs ached with a deep, hollow pain, the kind that settles in after too much movement—after too much dancing.

But she hadn't danced.

She'd barely slept.

Had she?

The mirror was bare. No towel. Just her reflection.

Only… not quite her.

Same hair. Same eyes.

But the girl in the glass wore a leotard. Her posture was perfect. Too perfect. Her arms were poised mid-motion, like she was still finishing a turn.

Eleanor blinked.

The reflection didn't.

It only whispered:

"It started here."

And suddenly—

She wasn't in her bedroom.

She was somewhere else.

A room with warped floorboards and high windows. Dust swirling in shafts of light. A barre lined the far wall. Mirrors—cracked but whole enough to reflect her.

Her, but younger.

Wearing ballet shoes.

Wearing shoes she didn't remember putting on.

She turned—and her own voice came out in someone else's mouth:

"I didn't want the box at first. I wanted the shoes."

The memory hit her like a fall.

She knew this. The voice. The story.

"Annabel was graceful. Annabel floated. She gave me the box after rehearsal one night. It was already playing."

Eleanor tried to speak, but her lips didn't move. She was watching. Feeling. Remembering something that wasn't hers.

"It listens," the memory said. "To want."

She turned in the mirror—her limbs too long, too light. Her body moved like it wasn't hers. Like she was on strings. The reflection smiled with someone else's teeth.

And behind her—

A stage.

Lit gold. Waiting.

She tried to stop it.

But her feet kept turning. Her arms floated up. Her breath caught in a throat that wasn't hers.

A laugh echoed from the glass.

"You'll be next."

Eleanor screamed.

The mirror shattered.

And—

She was back.

In her room.

On the floor.

Heart pounding.

The music box sat silent. Closed. But something buzzed under her skin.

She stood.

Walked to the bed.

The costume was already there. Laid out. Pale blue with silver ribbon, just like before.

A note sat atop it.

"Rehearsal at midnight. Wear it.

You've already accepted the role."

Eleanor reached for the towel—but the mirror was already gone.

Just her reflection.

Spinning.

Smiling.

Bleeding.