She appeared every night after the lamps had been turned down: the tiny dancer, flickering at the bottom of the attic stairs.
One moment there, the next moment gone.
And who was she? Mere residual energy left behind by a child playing dress-up? Or a girl whose dreams of being a ballerina were cut short?
Perhaps she was nothing more than an image conjured by the hopeful imagination of the boy who saw her: the lonely dancer who appeared at the top of the attic stairs every night, after the lamps had been turned down.
Longing one moment, the next moment gone.