Her body moves, but it is not the same. Each step feels heavier, as if grief has woven itself into her bones. She had once danced for joy, for passion, for the little life she carried within her. Now, she dances for the emptiness left behind.
Pirouettes become echoes of a love never held. A delicate arabesque, a silent yearning. She reaches out, as if the air might take shape, as if the child she lost could step into her arms. But there is only emptiness, only the quiet grief that lingers between each movement.
With every movement, the weight lessens—just a little. Not enough to erase the pain, but enough to remind her that she is still here. That one day, maybe, she will feel whole again.