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❝ River Thompson ❞
“A dancer’s life is fleeting… but how long can one dance on broken strings?”


River stared at herself in the mirror, barely registering her own reflection. The flurry of actors, actresses, and crew blurred together behind her, a smear of movement and faded colors. Her mind was dazed, struggling to focus on anything other than the sharp ache in her right wrist or the deep bruising beneath the corset her mother had forced her into that morning. She didn’t dare look down at her wrist—one glance at the costumer’s face earlier had been enough to tell her it wasn’t pretty. The fresh bandage wrapped around her thin wrist only made her stand out more among the nameless choir of ballerinas.
Each one of them was a near-perfect replica of the other, their hair tightly pinned in identical buns, their costumes seamless in design and texture. Their makeup—soft pinks and muted tones—was meant to make them blend into the backdrop. That was River’s role in the theater, to be unseen. But her mother despised it. Blending in meant fewer eyes on her, less money. Now, however, she stood out for all the wrong reasons. Her hair looked as brittle and fragile as the rest of her, her costume had to be taken in more and more each week, and now—now she had that damned bandage. The costumer had scolded her, demanding she cover it. So River waited in a loose dressing gown, arms folded around herself, waiting for her costume to arrive.
A sudden squeal of excitement broke through the hum of backstage preparations. A wave of sugary sweetness filled the air, followed by the distant chorus of voices singing Happy Birthday.
“Someone’s birthday,” she murmured, the words barely escaping her lips as reality snapped back into focus. Hunger clawed at her insides, twisting painfully. Gods, that smells amazing. Her tongue flicked out instinctively to wet her lips, only to be met with the waxy taste of lipstick instead of the soft, buttery sweetness of cake.
Drawn by the scent and the murmurs of celebration, River took a hesitant step toward the growing crowd. The dancers gathered in a semi-circle, their usual rigid postures softened by joy. She lingered at the edges, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Just for a moment, she could pretend she was like them—just another dancer in the troupe, not some forgotten, broken doll.
Then she noticed something else.
No one was watching the doors.
Normally, she wasn’t allowed within a foot of the exits, not even the ones leading to the front lobby. She was meant to stay within the theater walls, a ghost haunting the crimson-draped corridors and dimly lit dressing rooms. But today, everyone was too preoccupied with the birthday celebration. No one was looking at her.
Her next move wasn’t a decision—it was instinct.
River walked. Her heartbeat quickened, matching the rhythmic click of her pointe shoes against the wooden floor. Her gown, light and loose, was nowhere near appropriate for the outside world, but she didn’t care. She reached the door and clicked it open, only for her breath to hitch in disappointment. It led to another hallway, lined with doors and heavy curtains.
“Hells,” she whispered, her head snapping left, then right.
Then she started moving again, testing each door, hoping—praying—that one of them would lead her out.
𝄞 And so the music plays on... 𝄞