ACT I: THE METRONOME HEART
ALICE (16) is a ghost in the flesh. In the studio, she is all sharp angles and trembling effort, her reflection in the mirror a perpetual critique. Other dancers flow; Alice calculates. Her mother's voice is the soundtrack: "Almost, darling. Almost perfect." The grand audition for the National Academy looms. At home, she finds a forgotten music box in the attic. Its ballerina, though antique, is flawless. The inscription reads: "For the dedicated heart that seeks the unbroken line." Winding it, Alice whispers, "I would give anything to be perfect." The ballerina's painted eyes seem to glint.
ACT II: THE GILDED JOINTS
The next morning, a stiffness in her toes. Not soreness, but a strange, polished solidity. At rehearsal, she executes a turn sequence with inhuman precision. No wobble. No breath. The studio falls silent. Alice is ecstatic. But that night, the stiffness has spread to her ankles, the skin taking on a faint, wooden sheen. She tries to cut her toenails; the clippers spark against something metallic. Panic is a fleeting bird in her chest, quickly stilled by the memory of her teacher's awe. She winds the music box. The tune is sweeter now. Irresistible.
ACT III: THE UNWINDING KEY
The transformation accelerates. Her legs are elegant, carved wood. Her torso a sculpted porcelain cage. Her movements are geometrically sublime, but they only happen when she hears the music box's tune in her mind. She must wind the real box every few hours, or a terrifying paralysis sets in. The audition day arrives. On stage, she is a marvel. A living sculpture of perfect form. But as she reaches her finale, the mental music falters. She can see her mother's proud tears in the front row, but she is slowing… seizing… Her joints emit a tiny, dry creak. In sheer terror, she winds an imaginary key at her own back. The music roars back in her head. She finishes, a perfect statue in a final pose. The applause is thunderous. Backstage, her mother weeps with joy, embracing a daughter who cannot feel the touch, whose cheek gives a hollow sound when kissed.
ACT IV: THE PERFECT BOX
They take her home, but Alice cannot leave the attic. It is her stage. Her mother, now horrified, tries to stop the winding. Alice's beautiful, glassy eyes plead in utter silence. Without the music, she is trapped, conscious and frozen in her own perfect body. Her mother relents, weeping as she turns the key each time. One day, her mother places the music box on a velvet cushion before her. "I'm sorry," she sobs, and leaves, closing the attic door forever. Alice is alone. Perfect. Permanent. The music box begins to slow. The creak returns. As the tune drags, her panicked consciousness screams inside a flawless, silent shell. The last click. Silence. Dust motes dance in a single sunbeam that falls across her fixed, beatific smile and wide, unblinking eyes. In the dark corner of the attic, the forgotten music box waits. For the next dedicated heart.