The opera house. The scent of the stage — a mix of wood, velvet, and paraffin used to polish dancing shoes so they wouldn’t slip. Glitter scattered across the floor, catching the light, as the Polonaise began to play.
It was my very first performance, when I was just a child. Yet it was the most important — each step of the dance felt like a step into life, into art itself.
After the applause dissolved into silence, I slipped into the garden behind the theatre. The air was cool, trembling with evening light. Hydrangeas leaned heavy with bloom — lush, almost theatrical themselves — their petals holding the last gold of the day.
