The scent of fried plantains floated through the warm kitchen air, mixing with the sweet hum of Erica's laughter. Her tiny feet pattered against the tiled floor as she spun in slow, lopsided circles, arms stretched out like butterfly wings.
"Erica!" Grandma called from behind the sizzling pan. "You're going to fall and break your pretty neck!"
"I'm dancing, Grandma!" Erica giggled, breathless, her curls bouncing with each spin. "Like the ballerinas on TV!"
Her grandmother chuckled, shaking her head, but there was love in her eyes—deep, quiet love, like soft hands on a child's back.
"Well, just don't dance into the hot oil."
Erica nodded solemnly, then kept twirling, just a little farther from the stove. She imagined a grand stage, golden lights, clapping hands. In her world, there were no missed birthdays, no angry voices behind closed doors—only music and soft skirts and dreams that fluttered in the air like glitter.
She paused for breath and looked up at her grandmother. "Do you think I can be a real dancer one day?"
Grandma turned off the stove, wiped her hands on a faded towel, and knelt down to look her in the eyes. "I think you already are."
Erica beamed. Her heart, small and soft, fluttered like it was trying to fly.
Outside the window, the city moved loudly—cars honking, boys yelling, someone's radio playing too loud. But inside the kitchen, time held its breath for a moment, and Erica danced again—just one more twirl.