She looked exactly like me as a child.
Not vaguely. Not from a distance. Exactly. Direct, specific, pinning me to the mirror—the shape of her face, her jawline, those eyes. I had a photo from when I was five, my birthday, Mom's camera, me in a white dress in the yard smiling. This little girl looked like that photo. Enough to stop my breath.
My bag strap slipped. I caught it before it fell.
"Are you the new teacher?" Her voice was bright, a little raspy like she'd just woken up, but her eyes were sharp, studying me openly.
I took a deep breath and crouched down to her level. "Yes. I'm Olivia Adrian." I paused. My voice came out steady, completely at odds with my heartbeat. "What's your name?"
She straightened up, answering with absolute seriousness.
"I'm Juliet. Can I call you Miss Vivi?"
My hand shook.
Just once. In the leg I was crouched on. Too fast for her to notice.
Juliet.
My daughter's name was Juliet.
I forced myself to stay calm.
New York was huge. Juliet wasn't uncommon, especially in Italian families. Probably half a dozen Juliets on this block alone. And my Juliet was in Brooklyn, locked in that family's manor, where they'd never let her out, certainly not alone in an Upper East Side townhouse taking private ballet lessons—the logic was airtight.
I stood up, swallowed the chaos back down, kept my voice even. "All right, Juliet. If that's what you like. Let's begin."
But the feeling wouldn't leave.
It hung there, behind the composure I was barely holding onto, like a splinter. Not painful. Just there.
Because those green eyes looked at me like she knew me.
Not like a stranger. Like something instinctive, something pulling her toward me—something she couldn't name, maybe didn't even realize yet. Quiet, constant, all through the lesson. Wherever I moved, her eyes followed. Not deliberate. Just there. Like gravity older than memory.
At least she learned fast. Fast enough to keep my attention on teaching, keep me from losing it in front of her.
I demonstrated first position. She watched twice, lifted her arms, got seventy percent of the angle right. A light touch, and she found the rest herself.
"Relax your wrist," I said. "Don't hold it up. Let it rest there naturally."
She frowned, studied herself in the mirror, and adjusted twice. Third time, she got it. Saw the right curve in the reflection, lips twitching into a smile, but holding the position steady.
"That's it," I said. "Perfect."
Then she let herself smile fully.
We moved through the positions like that. She asked questions. I answered. She copied. I corrected. Just the sound of our voices and soft shoes on wood. If I knew nothing, this would've been a normal, pleasant beginner's class.
But I couldn't let myself sink into it.
Halfway through, I told her to take five, drink some water. She went to the chair, took two sips, and looked up at me. "Miss Vivi, you smell really nice."
I froze. "What do I smell like?"
"Like..." She tilted her head, thinking. "Sweet. Soft." Her eyes turned serious in a way I couldn't ignore. "I smelled it in a dream."
I couldn't breathe.
