The Sprung Floor

The walls of the house have closed in, and Claire does the only thing her body knows to do — she moves. Across the dark yard in thin socks, past the hills hoist and the lemon tree, along stepping stones she laid herself three summers ago, to the converted shed at the back of the property. Her studio. The key is under the rosemary pot. The fluorescents flicker and settle. The air smells of rosin and timber and the ghost of years of work.

She starts at the barre. Demi-plié, grand plié, tendu — the classical vocabulary so deeply ingrained it requires no thought, only presence. The cold retreats as the heater works and her body warms from within. She runs through the choreography she's been building for her intermediate juniors, a piece set to Debussy that will make parents cry if the children can find the feeling inside the technique. She dances it alone, bowing to her own reflection, and when the music fades, her mind is empty for the first time all night.

Then she switches to tap. The worn shoes, the metal plates dulled to a matte finish, the driving blues track that invites improvisation. Here the discipline gives way to conversation — feet and floor, rhythm and response. The studio fills with the clatter and ring of movement that feels like speech, like all the things she cannot say finding their way out through her feet instead of her mouth.

When it's over, she stands in the quiet she has earned. This silence is nothing like the silence in the house. This one was filled before it arrived.

She cools down, changes, turns off the heater. Crosses back to the kitchen. Fills Charlie's water bowl. Calls Paul one last time — and her voice is different now. Softer. The sharp edges worn away. She hangs up and stands in the empty house, and the decision arrives without drama. She picks up her keys. She doesn't want to wait here alone. She wants her mother.