I heard the cries again, just as I had on the three previous nights of our ballet tour. The year was 2009, and these cries were similar to those I’d experienced as a child whenever someone I loved had died. The first time was a week after my grandmother departed. For months afterwards, I’d refused to sleep without a light burning in my room. Then I’d heard them again when I was nine. That time they came after my best friend died of leukemia, the day after I’d visited her in the hospital. My final haunting came when I was twelve. The year was 2000, the turn of the century and was made memorable because it marked the loss of my beloved dance teacher, Madame Yelena Natilova. She’d been run down by a car at the age of sixty-four.




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