Giselle had always been marked by indifference. From the moment she could remember, the world treated her as invisible. At the orphanage, she wasn't a first choice, never the child anyone stopped to notice. She was a passing thought, a child to keep occupied while other, brighter lives demanded attention.
"Ma'am, why was I dropped off here?" she had asked once, her five-year-old voice trembling with courage.
The director had shrugged, offering no comfort, no explanation. "I don't know. But here...take this book. Read to pass the time."
And so she did. Books became her sanctuary, her companions, her invisible shield against the indifference that seemed to trail her like a shadow. She devoured stories of kingdoms and battles, gods and mortals, lost civilizations and whispered magic. Over time, she learned to observe, truly observe everything others overlooked. The way a door creaked just slightly before opening, the pattern of sunlight through broken panes, the scent of dust and earth mixing in the orphanage yard. Being forgotten had its advantages, she could see what no one else did.
But by the time she was ten, the books alone no longer satisfied her curiosity. There was a world outside these walls, a rhythm to the wind and streets she had only glimpsed through the iron gate. One evening, restless and determined, she slipped out through a crack in the wall. Barefoot, she felt the cool earth under her feet, each step a tiny rebellion. The path stretched for miles, and the next town lay an hour away but Giselle barely noticed. She was absorbed in every detail. The rough texture of the dirt, the smell of smoke from distant cooking fires, the soft rustle of leaves stirred by the wind.
The orphanage sat in a small neighboring town near the mainland. It wasn't a place rich folk often visited, and its buildings were not sturdy, but to Giselle, it had enough presence to make the small town feel alive. She had always wondered about the people who lived along these paths, the stories buried in the hills and forests. Tonight, she would discover at least a fragment of them.
As she rounded a bend in the path, a sudden glow caught her eye. Ahead, flames leapt into the night sky, consuming logs in a fierce, unrestrained dance. A circle of elders moved around the fire, their voices rising and falling in a song that seemed older than the earth itself. Something deep inside her stirred, resonating with the rhythm, though she didn't yet understand why. Almost without realizing it, she walked closer, drawn in by a force she could not name.
The women around the fire were dressed in traditional attire, each outfit unique yet part of an unspoken harmony. Some wore iro and buba, Ankara fabrics in shades of deep blue, gold, and crimson, the patterns twisting and flowing with every movement. Their gele crowns were wrapped high on their heads, spinning and unfurling as they twirled. Coral beads jingled against their necks, and bracelets clinked with each step, producing a quiet symphony of sound. The men were adorned in agbada, flowing robes of white and ivory embroidered in gold thread, the firelight reflecting off the intricate designs. Every fold, every motion of fabric seemed deliberate, like a language Giselle had only glimpsed in her books.
Her fingers itched to touch the fabrics, to feel the history embedded in the threads, the weight of ancestry resting in each stitch. She almost stumbled over the hem of a twirling iro, but the woman wearing it only smiled, nodding as if recognizing something in the child. Giselle joined the circle, her movements clumsy, tentative but they welcomed her anyway. The fire crackled, sparks floating into the air like glowing seeds scattered by an unseen hand.
The music was mesmerizing, weaving in drums and clapping, in voices that rose and fell in a way that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She tried to mimic the steps, spinning as best she could, feeling the rhythm push through her, teaching her in ways no book ever could. Each beat seemed to connect her to something ancient, something vast and immovable, yet full of life.
A gentle wind stirred from somewhere high above, rattling charms and beads hanging from a nearby stall. They clicked together like tiny bells counting time, measuring lives, mistakes, and forgotten stories. Giselle shivered, not in fear, but in recognition. She didn't yet know the significance of what she was seeing, but she knew it mattered. Something was alive here older than her books, older than her town, older than her orphaned life.
Among the dancers, she noticed a mask leaning against a log, its hollow eyes staring back at her as if it had watched centuries pass. Its wood was carved in intricate patterns, lines and symbols that made no sense yet felt familiar. She reached out, fingertips brushing the surface. A shiver ran through her, not cold but sharp and electrifying. The mask seemed almost to pulse beneath her touch, a heartbeat older than memory itself.
Nearby, an elder raised a hand and the music fell into a softer rhythm. He muttered something in a language she did not know. The words were unfamiliar, yet she understood them in her bones. They spoke of balance, of rules hidden in plain sight, of consequences that stretched far beyond the human eye. Giselle felt the weight of it, pressing on her like gravity.
She had thought the world was the pages of her books, ink and letters forming kingdoms and battles she could explore safely. But now she knew it was more than that alive, responsive, and waiting. It had a language, a rhythm, a law that demanded attention, whether she wished to obey or not.
For the first time, Giselle understood what it meant to truly see. She was no longer just an observer from the sidelines. She was present in something bigger, something older. She could feel the pulse of it in the sway of gele, the clink of beads, the heat of the fire, the scent of smoke and earth and life.
The circle spun, the music soared, and Giselle felt herself part of it in ways she could not yet explain. As the wind shifted, rattling charms and beads, a faint whisper brushed against her ear. Almost too soft to hear over the fire, it seemed carried by the flames themselves.
"The one who watches when others look away holds the keys the world forgot to give."
Giselle froze. The words resonated in her chest, like a pulse she had always felt but never named. The firelight painted her in amber and gold, and for the first time, she understood that her quiet attention, her years of being invisible, had not gone unnoticed. The world itself had been waiting, and now it was speaking directly to her.
She didn't run. She didn't hide. She stood among them, letting the firelight paint her in amber and gold, letting the rhythm teach her what the books had only hinted at. And for the first time in her life, she felt the thrill of being noticed, not by the director, not by passing strangers, but by the world itself, ancient and patient, calling her into its secret rhythms.
As the night deepened and the fire sputtered, Giselle knew she had crossed a line. Something had changed, some small but irrevocable truth had shifted. She didn't yet understand what lay ahead, or why she had been chosen or unchosen to witness this. But one thing was certain, she could not turn back.
And so, barefoot and small, she danced, spinning into the night, carrying with her the first whisper of something that would one day demand everything from her.