Dark Ballerina

Eleanor woke to the sound of humming.

Soft. Childlike. Off-key.

Her eyes snapped open.

She was lying on the living room floor, curled in a position she didn't remember choosing. The fireplace was cold. The windows were sealed. Her shoes were off.

For a moment, she just stared at the ceiling, breathing hard. Her heart pounded, too fast. Her limbs ached.

"What…?"

She sat up slowly. The bag she'd packed was gone.

The keys, the phone—gone.

Only the journal sat nearby on the floor, closed neatly as if it had been placed there by gentle hands.

Her mind reeled.

She remembered the car.

The fog.

The ballerina in the backseat.

The doors locking.

And then—nothing. Not even a moment of passing out. Just the instant blink from "out" to "in."

Her palms were scratched raw. Like she'd tried to fight her way through something sharp.

She staggered to her feet.

The room looked unchanged, but it felt… tighter. Smaller. Like the house had breathed in, and hadn't exhaled yet.

She walked into the hallway, calling out:

"Hello? Is someone here?"

No answer.

But something had changed.

The photos on the walls. Old family pictures, once dusty and faded, were now crystal-clear. Restored. In one, she saw her grandmother as a child—but beside her stood another girl, same age, in a tutu. Dark eyes. Sad smile.

Annabel.

Eleanor reached out, brushing the frame.

Her fingers left no smudge.

The photo didn't feel like paper anymore—it felt like glass over water. Like it wasn't a photo, but a window.

Behind her, something creaked.

She turned fast.

The staircase to the second floor stood open.

At the top sat the music box.

Not in her room. Not in the car. Just… there.

Waiting.

The ballerina wasn't spinning.

She was standing still.

Her tiny arms were no longer raised to dance.

They were pointed—down the stairs. At Eleanor.

And her mouth… her mouth was open.