Rex stared at the sketch. It looked unfinished — not because it lacked detail, but because it refused closure. It hovered on the edge of becoming, like a breath held too long.
Degas crouched beside him, dragging the edge of a pastel across the floor again, leaving a faint crescent of lavender dust.
"In your world, you praise perfection," he said, almost absently. "Flawless timing. Flawless skin. Flawless moves."
He tapped the sketch.
"But flaw is where the soul shows through, where it truly shines."
He turned to the mirrors. Rex followed his gaze.
Each mirror now held a different moment — dancers collapsing after rehearsal, shoes frayed at the edges, hands clutching aching muscles, tears wiped discreetly behind curtains. There was no music, only breath. The cost of beauty.
Degas waved a hand, the mirrors shattered.
