School was over. Cora slipped into the dance studio and closed the door.
She grabbed the barre and rose onto her toes. The mirrors showed her pirouettes, over and over.
A group of six-year-olds practiced in the corner. Their teacher clapped time. Cora stopped mid-turn — her shoe squeaked. She saw herself in the mirror: eleven among tiny dancers.
Cora sat on the edge of the stage. Her ballet shoes sat heavy beside her. The stage was quiet except for the hum of the lights.
She picked up her shoes and walked to the wings. The program listed her name: Cora — Solo.
The music started. Cora stepped into the light.
She danced — leaps, turns, arms reaching — until the final note.
The audience clapped. Cora stood in her finishing pose, smiling.