Ballroom

• Daniela Cantafio, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2021

The muffled notes of a bittersweet melody waft in through a crack in the heavy double doors. You’ve heard this melody, maybe in another life, and it feels so heart-crushingly familiar that you ache to push the door open. You enter the ballroom in wonder, eyes absorbing the sweeping arches and stained glass windows, until your gaze wanders to the grand piano at the end of the room. You cross the room cautiously, shoes clacking on the smooth floor, and the piano player looks up.

His cloudless blue eyes meet yours, and a hint of a soft smile graces his lips. He stands up, and to your incredulity, the piano keys seem to play themselves. “Care for a dance?” he says with a foreign lisp, extending a gloved hand. You accept, putting your hand in his, and he slides his other arm around your waist. “Like this,” he whispers softly, guiding your feet into a steady rhythm synchronous with his flowing movements. The world is slightly blurred, and you find yourself lost in the music as the mellow warble of a clarinet layers over the melancholy thrum of strings. You whirl and spin into the night, bodies intertwined in a never-ending waltz, until the last echoes of music fade away.

“Goodbye,” he breathes, caressing your hair, and you reach on your tiptoes to kiss him. He tastes of stardust and roses, and then he pulls away gently, smiling as sweetly as he did when you first saw him. Then you’re choking, choking, choking on the rose petals he’s left in your mouth as your knees quiver and hit the ground with a dull thud. As the poison creeps into your vision, you see him take a seat at the piano to start playing for his next guest.