As a teacher of folklore, I had read about Her for years. Her billowing gown, those elegant legs. Her arms, outstretched and pale, as She asks for your last dance.
I thought I was doing okay after the accident. I missed Cerise, of course, and it hurt whenever I visited the grave. I never thought about hurting myself, or the weight I was losing to grief, or how everyone was noticing.
Imagine my surprise when I saw Her for myself, on the bridge I was supposed to be walking, not stumbling across. Imagine my surprise when she extended Her hand.
Author’s Note: I have lately become fascinated by folkloric accounts of The White Lady, an apparition frequently seen in France for centuries. While not all interactions with her are negative, some accounts depict her (and her dance) as an emissary to the afterlife. I also love the idea of a protagonist doomed, as many of us are, to meet his own death in both a shocking and entirely appropriate form.
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