Chapter Six: Little Ghost

The moon wasn't bright tonight.

Just soft.

Low.

Like it had come closer to listen.

Uma stood at the lake's edge, scarf still draped over her shoulders like she hadn't decided if she was cold or not. Her feet pressed bare into the dirt, her fingers twitching like they remembered music that wasn't playing.

No wind. No birds. Just her. The water. The stars, cracked and spilled across the lake.

She didn't know why she was doing this.

Maybe because she could.

Maybe because she had to.

Maybe because her legs felt too full of energy to sleep, and her chest felt too full of everything else.

She stepped forward.

Slow. Careful.

Heel, then toe.

Not stiff. Not showy.

Just… practiced.

Her arms followed—one raised, the other curling low, trailing behind her like a forgotten ribbon. She dipped. Turned. Rose again.

It wasn't a performance.

Not this time.

It was release.

'Last time I danced, I had a voice,' she thought, letting her hand arc outward like it might catch something falling. 'Last time, I had lights, a stage, cheap sneakers that didn't fit right. A mirror to check myself in. A reason to try.'

Her foot caught the earth. She spun, weight shifting with the kind of instinct that didn't come from thought.

'But this? This is mine now.'

No crowd. No song. No applause.

Just the sound of her breath. The feel of the dirt. The way her muscles moved like they remembered what it meant to be alive.

She spun again—cleaner this time.

Her arms sliced the air. Her knee bent and pushed off the ground, body curling mid-air before landing with the softest of thuds.

Her scarf slipped off one shoulder.

She didn't fix it.

'Dance doesn't need language. Doesn't need permission.'

Her body turned again—faster this time, toes carving a half-circle in the dirt. Her breath hitched. Her chest burned.

But her smile stuck.

This wasn't for anyone.

Not the town.

Not Serosa.

Not the voice she'd lost.

It was for her.

A memory.

A stake in the ground that said I'm still here.

Behind her, just far enough not to interrupt, Serosa stood beneath the trees.

She hadn't meant to watch.

Really.

She'd been heading back. Just checking on the moonlight. The wind. Making sure Uma wasn't about to fall in the lake.

But then the girl had moved.

And Serosa stopped.

Didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

Just watched.

There was nothing flashy about it. No grand arcs. No leaps.

But the way Uma turned—shoulders loose, feet light, arms moving like they were remembering the shape of something she hadn't touched in years?

It hurt.

It really hurt.

'She moves like a ghost trying to be real again,' Serosa thought, chest tight. 'And damn it… it's beautiful.'

Not the kind of beauty Serosa had ever known. Not like the battlefield. Not like strategy. Not even like poetry.

This was lived-in beauty.

Raw.

Earned.

Like watching someone rebuild a home brick by brick after the storm.

Uma paused in the dirt. One hand rose. The other curled in. Her eyes tilted skyward.

Then she dropped.

Spun.

Caught herself mid-fall like the wind had tried to push her and she'd said no.

Serosa exhaled.

Stepped back into the dark before the girl could spot her.

Before that strange warmth in her chest could spill out into something embarrassing.

She didn't say goodbye. Didn't need to.

She just whispered—so soft the wind barely caught it:

"Dance as long as you want, little ghost."

Then she turned.

Walked away.

The girl wasn't done yet.

And Serosa?

She'd seen enough to know:

This one wasn't going to fade.

Not quietly.

Not ever