Evening shines through stained glass windows, bleeding red and gold and green onto each surface. The piano is silent and still, the only sound maybe a tendril of sweet summer wind whipping over the exposed strings, the sound of tuned vibration like an out of focus photograph. She dances on point to the cathedral silence, eyes closed, breathing through the small cracks in the walls. The entire world is soft. When she leaps, one long, battered point shoe before her, she leaps forever, and falls forever, and lands on an eternity of dust, in an attitude position, one pointed toe and one bent knee. She brings her upper body forward, down toward the stone floor, bringing higher and higher the other point shoe, the other long leg. She is vertical and horizontal, she is a ballerina figurine. She brings herself out of the bow, and begins her slow dance once more, a slow twirl, a light step. There is another leap, another ritardando, and she draws in every limp, draws down any height until she is a bundle wrapped in arms and legs, en dedans. Then the bundle is gone; she breaks free, moving so quickly that she could very well be flying, leaping thrice across cross the dusty floor. She lands finally, both arms above her head, en dehors, fifth position. She is in the center of the mammoth room. The sun is setting behind the stained glass. Her chest does not move. The world is fading once more to grey, the colors draining from the splintering piano. She moves to the arabesque position, one leg behind her in a solid horizontal line, hands still curved above her slowly lowering head and upper body. They come down as her knees bend and she neatly sits, one knee pointing up, the other wrapped around, hands meeting their opposite forearms around the tall leg. Feathers flutter around her on the floor, the necessary final shedding of her wings. They are stark white in the grey. Her head lowers. She sleeps.