The city never slept, but it always felt like it was holding its breath.
Anastasia 'Nastya' Ivanov stood at the tram stop with her coat pulled tightly around her, the frigid air slicing through the wool like it had something to prove. Around her, people moved— faster, louder, better dressed.She didn't care. She had two hours before her next shift, and a borrowed pair of pointe shoes in her bag, still damp from morning practice.
Once, she had danced under chandeliers, in front of sold-out crowds. Now, she danced in empty studios that smelled of dust and disappointment, for students who didn't know her name.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket , another message from the landlord.
Three days, Nastya
She sighed and tilted her head to the sky. The snow was falling. Of course it was. She didn't wait for the tram, she walked.
Her boot were cheap and thin-soled, but they still made a satisfying crunch on the ice covered pavement. She passed the old bakery that now sold only coffee. The closed bookstore with yellowing posters in the window. The faded ballet school where she had once spent her childhood afternoons, peeking through the windows at the older girls.
That used to be me, she thought. Before everything cracked
A block later, she ducked into the back entrance of a run-down art studio where she taught children on Saturdays. It wasn't much—a cracked mirror, warped floorboards and a single upright piano that only played half of the keys—but it was hers for two hours a week. Enough to remember who she'd been.
"Nastya!" Little Pomona ran up to her already in a dancewear two sizes big. "I practiced the turn you showed me!"
"Did you?" Anastasia smiled. Knelling to fix the girl's loose bun. "Let me see after warm-up , okay?"
She taught with the precision of a dancer and the patience of someone who knew how much it cost to fall. She praised gently and corrected firmly. For an hour, she almost forgot her rent. Her unpaid utility bills. The bruises of her toes from dancing in shoes she couldn't afford to replace.
But when the last child left, the last mother waved her tired thanks, Anastasia was alone again in the quiet studio.
She sat on the floor, stretched out her aching legs, and slipped on the borrowed points shoes. Slowly, carefully, she rose onto the tips of her toes. Her reflection in the mirror wavered—elegant, broken, determined.
You are still here, she told herself. Even if no one sees it.
After an hour, the studio doors closed on her laughter and the echoes of children's footsteps. Anastasia stepped back into the chill of the city. The evening felt heavy as she left the sanctuary of her familiar chaos. She walked along a narrow, snow-dusted side street where faded store fronts and peeling posters told forgotten stories. An old street lamp flickered at irregular intervals, casting long wavering shadows that danced on the cracked sidewalks.
Passing an abandoned theater with an ornate façade, she could almost hear the ghost applause from performances long past. Nearby, a heated vendor's cart exuded the tempting aroma of freshly baked pirozkhi mixed with the smoky thang of burning wood— a modest comfort on her unforgiving winter night. Yet, the cold remained unyielding, seeping between the worn soles of her boots and through the thin fabric of her scarf
By the time she reached her apartment, her fingers were numb and her face and her face stung from the wind. The building was old Soviet-era concrete, the type that looked like it hadn't been warm since the Cold War. She climbed four flights of stairs— no elevator of course— past the neighbor who never said hello and the peeling mural of sunflower someone had painted over a decade ago.
Her door stuck before it opened with a grunt. Inside— silence.
A single lamp illuminated the one room space. The wallpaper was faded, curling at the corners. A kettle sat on the stove, old and dented, the hun of the fridge the only sign of life.
She peeled off her layers slowly, like armor. Coat, boots, scarf. Her legs ached, her right foot aches from the point work. She sat on the edge of the worn-out sofa and flexed her toes. A small tear in the tights. Another thing she couldn't replace.
On the table lay a half open envelope:
FINAL NOTICE — Payment Required Within 72 Hours
She stared at it for a long time , then pushed it aside and reached for her journal. In it, page after page of choreography ideas, future class plans, the name of the school she wanted to open someday
Crescendo Ballet Academy
It sounded elegant. Real. Like it belonged to someone who hadn't had to ration tea bags and sell her old costumes just to make rent.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't the landlord. It was her sister
Trina: Mama's fever is worse. Can you send something? Please? I don't know what to do.
Anastasia stared at the text. For the first time that day, her eyes burned — not from the wind , but from something heavier. She had nothing left to give but she would give it anyway.
She took a deep breath and typed:
I'll figure something out.
She always did.