The door clicked shut behind me.
The room revealed itself in slow, lavish breaths.
A grand piano: black lacquer, lid propped open, ivory keys glowing soft under the lamp like teeth in a smile. Sheet music scattered across the bench, edges curling, some pages yellowed with age.
A half-empty bottle of Macallan 25 sat beside a single crystal tumbler, amber liquid catching the light like trapped fire.
A velvet chaise lounge in deep burgundy, throw pillows crushed like someone had been curled there for hours.
A wall of built-in shelves: trophies, pointe shoes in glass cases, framed photos of a younger her on stages in Paris, New York, Tokyo.
A ballet barre ran the length of one mirrored wall, scuffed from years of use. A record player in the corner, vinyl spinning slow: Nina Simone, voice low and smoky, barely audible over the distant thump from below.
Everything screamed solitude. Sanctuary. She lived here. Not just visited.
