Sirlia did not dance—she embarrassed the roaming fireflies and even the stars with the pixyish motions of her tiny feet. Every one of her gestures appeared illuminated. Only the most discerning of eyes realized that beyond the astounding beauty of her movements, Sirlia was no typical dancer. The girl of dewy eyes and subtle chin was crippled.

No one ever mentioned that one of Sirlia’s pristine legs was shorter than the other by three or four inches. For when she danced, the discrepancy was as invisible as the love burning between two comets fatefully crossing paths for a passionate instant. Only when Sirlia walked, unprotected by her guardian melodies, did anyone truly notice her jarring limp. In order to prevent unnecessary humiliation, she had learned to disguise the limp through dance long ago.

That is why Sirlia hardly ever walked. She despised the awkwardness of her steps, the way her torso fell forward with no warning. It angered her, the fact that she could possess so little control over own her body. She wanted reign over her very cells so that not a single one pulsed without her permission.

But Sirlia only claimed such tyranny in her lithe footwork, with the sound of gorgeous music weaving in and out of her dreaming mind. She cursed the moments that demanded her to walk or, worse, run.

Sirlia could not run at all. The cripple could only hobble. She bitterly remembered once, as a small girl, being chased by a black dog during an October drizzle. Sirlia toppled over with the gracelessness of an acorn and her jaw slammed against the cold sidewalk. The dog scampered closer, relishing the opportunity to taste the bright red blood of an innocent. Its hot breath grazed her neck for a second before its noble owner seized it by its scruff just in time to save the crippled girl. Sirlia sighed, so relieved that she forgot to thank the canine’s owner. She only sat there before struggling to get up, whereupon she twirled away, suddenly becoming the acorn spinning across the coolness of an autumn.

When Sirlia did not dance, she worked in her parents’ cheese shop, located between a bike repair shop and a large, commercial bookstore. At least that was the alleged reason the girl spent so many hours alone in her parents’ business. In all honesty, she had nothing else to do besides bore herself at school. More often than not, Sirlia played opera records on an old phonograph as she drew outlines of strange figures in the cheese meant for finicky customers.