Zain drove to the academy. The night air was crisp as they walked back to the academy.
Zain already had the keys of the Academy as he had already called in-allowing them access to the studio after work hours. So he unlocked the door and Musa walked in. The academy was dark.
The moon was a sliver over the rooftops of Paris, and the streets were quiet, the city holding its breath.
Inside the studio, the moonlight spilled across the floor in pale, ghostly bars. Musa didn't turn on the overhead lights.
She walked to the sound system and put on a piece of music that sounded like haunting, melancholic cello solo that seemed to vibrate with the very essence of longing.
"Show me," Zain said, leaning against the doorframe. "Show me what you were dancing when I first saw you here."
Musa nodded with a smile.
She stepped into the center of the room, her silhouette sharp against the dark. As the music swelled, she began to move. It wasn't the technical, rigid ballet of a classroom.
