She danced alone now, in the once-dark basement she’d transformed into a palatial studio flooded with light. Her home, a gray fortress barely visible through the blinding snow, was simultaneously a refuge and a prison.
She had a life back in New York. How she loved the freedom of being onstage, the music of the orchestra swelling in her ears, spinning wildly until the other dancers around her were just a blur.
It started with a few strange, anonymous messages, ardent expressions of devotion. She ignored them. The person that had written them was clearly obsessive, but likely harmless, she’d reasoned. Then came the phone calls and messages threatening her with violence in unspeakable, torturous ways. Demands for attention. Pictures of her, at lunch with friends, hailing cabs, walking to rehearsals, were sent to her phone with the frightening caption, I see you.
Then came the final straw, when she realized her home was bugged. That someone was watching, listening, every moment she thought she was alone. She never slept there again.
Maybe one day she’d turn the basement into a real dance studio, start teaching classes, holding recitals. But for now, just being able to dance was enough. She closed her eyes and leaped into the air once again, not noticing the tiny dot above the doorway.
Someone watched her still.
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