Previously – Chapter 1: Broken Wings
Mia woke up the next morning to the sound of clattering dishes and the low hum of talk radio drifting in from the kitchen. Pale sunlight filtered through her bedroom window, illuminating faint dust motes that danced across the air. For a moment, she lay still, wondering if the events of yesterday—the awkward reunion with Adam Lockwood, the stinging reminder of her injury—were just dreams conjured by her anxious mind. But the dull ache in her hip quickly confirmed reality.
She reached down, massaging the tender joint. So much for wishful thinking. The plan had been simple: come home to Pine Falls, rest, and focus on rehabilitation. But nothing about her emotional state felt restful. Images from her brief visit to Lockwood Dance Academy kept replaying in her head: Adam’s cautious smile, the mirrored walls, the faint scent of rosin lingering in the corners of the studio. She could almost feel the smooth barre under her fingertips, a memory tugging at her heart.
A knock on her bedroom door broke her reverie. Her mother’s voice followed. “Mia, I made some oatmeal and fruit if you’re hungry. You need a good meal before your physical therapy appointment.”
Mia sat up, grimacing as she swung her legs off the bed. Right, the appointment. She’d scheduled one with a local therapist to continue her post-surgery rehab. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll be right out.”
As she dressed in loose, comfortable leggings and a hoodie, she felt a flicker of longing for the elegant leotards and tights that once dominated her wardrobe. She tried to shake off the nostalgia, reminding herself that for now, comfort was paramount. The days of graceful costumes and performances were on indefinite hold—maybe permanently.
In the kitchen, Patricia was stirring a pot of oatmeal on the stove. The aroma of cinnamon and apples filled the small space, offering a cozy welcome. “Morning,” Patricia greeted, giving Mia a quick once-over. “How’s the hip?”
Mia forced a small smile, sliding into a chair at the modest dining table. “About the same. Not terrible, not great.”
Her mother nodded, ladling oatmeal into a bowl. She set it before Mia and added a sprinkle of brown sugar on top. “You have the therapy session at ten, right?”
“Yeah, Lucy offered to drive me.”
Patricia hovered, pressing her lips together as though debating whether to say more. Finally, she sank into the chair across from Mia, folding her hands. “I’m glad you’re seeing someone local, but are you sure you don’t want to consider going back to the city for advanced facilities? They might have better equipment or specialized ballet rehab programs.”
Mia’s stomach tightened. She knew her mother meant well, but the suggestion felt like an indirect jab—Why stay in Pine Falls when you could be somewhere more professional? She swallowed her frustration. “I need rest, Mom. Big-city specialists are great, but I can’t handle the stress of living alone right now. Besides, I’m not even sure if I’ll get back to that level of dancing.” Her voice wavered slightly at the last statement.
Patricia’s eyes softened. “All right. I just don’t want you to give up.”
“I’m not giving up,” Mia said, a bit too quickly. She stared at her oatmeal, stirring it absently. Am I giving up? The question nagged at her, uncomfortably raw.
They ate in a fraught silence, the radio murmuring softly about local election updates. By the time Lucy’s knock sounded at the door, Mia welcomed the distraction. She gathered her cane and hobbled to the front porch, managing a smile at her best friend’s enthusiastic wave.
Lucy drove a beat-up station wagon, the back seats cluttered with old newspapers, a spare pair of shoes, and a half-empty water bottle. She flashed Mia a grin as Mia slid into the passenger seat. “Morning, sunshine. Ready to get poked and prodded?”
Mia rolled her eyes but appreciated Lucy’s attempt at levity. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” They pulled away from Patricia’s cottage, heading toward the small medical complex on the east side of Pine Falls.
En route, Lucy chattered about the upcoming autumn festival, the local thrift store’s grand re-opening, and rumors that the town council might erect a new playground near the river. Mia tried to listen, though her mind drifted to the Lockwood Dance Academy. She wondered if Adam was teaching a morning class, or if the studio was empty until the afternoon.
“Any updates on Adam’s studio?” Mia asked abruptly, surprising even herself with the question.
Lucy gave her a sidelong glance. “Why? Considering a job there?” Her tone was teasing, but curiosity laced her gaze.
Mia huffed a breath, staring out the window at passing houses. “I’m just… curious. You said he was struggling. That place used to be a big dream for him and Heather, right?”
Lucy nodded, her expression softening. “Yeah, it was. He still runs classes, mostly for kids and teens, but enrollment dropped a lot. Some families moved away. Others prefer bigger studios in the next town over. He tries to keep overhead low, but it’s still tough.”
A pang of sympathy twisted in Mia’s chest. She pictured the quiet determination in Adam’s face. “Must be hard doing it alone,” she murmured.
“Probably,” Lucy agreed. “He has a part-time instructor for modern dance, but that’s it. I’ve heard from parents that Adam’s main draw is his personal touch, but when finances are tight, people sometimes pick cheaper options or drop extracurriculars entirely.”
Mia bit her lip. Would he even want my help? The idea of stepping into that studio, half-limping and unable to dance properly, felt both daunting and strangely compelling. She shoved the thought aside as Lucy pulled into the medical complex.
The Pine Falls Rehabilitation Center was a modest building with a brick facade and large windows overlooking a small garden. Mia followed Lucy inside, where a friendly receptionist confirmed her appointment. A faint scent of antiseptic and fresh coffee lingered in the waiting area, which was lined with chairs and a few outdated magazines.
Mia’s new physical therapist, Sasha Nguyen, was a petite woman in her early thirties with a no-nonsense demeanor and a warm smile. She led Mia into a small examination room with a padded table, a mirror, and shelves of exercise bands and foam rollers.
“Welcome, Mia,” Sasha said, scanning the chart on her tablet. “So, you’re recovering from a serious hip injury—surgery about six weeks ago, right?”
Mia nodded, settling on the exam table. “Yes. Torn labrum, plus some muscle strain. My surgeon said I’d need extensive physical therapy to regain full motion—if possible.”
Sasha set the tablet aside, gently testing Mia’s range of motion. Mia winced at the discomfort. “We’ll start slow,” Sasha said calmly. “It’s crucial not to push too hard, too fast. That can cause re-injury or scar tissue issues. You’re a dancer, I see?”
Mia’s throat tightened. “I was.” The admission stung. “I mean, I still am, but not sure if I can get back to professional level.”
Sasha offered a sympathetic look. “We’ll do our best. Dancers are highly motivated, but we must be cautious. Let’s see how your baseline is.”
The next thirty minutes were a blur of gentle stretches, measured movements, and pointed corrections. Sasha explained the importance of strengthening surrounding muscles, improving stability, and gradually reintroducing dance-like movements only when Mia’s body was ready. Throughout, Mia tried to focus on the sensation of each exercise rather than the frustration gnawing at her. I used to do grand jetés for hours; now I’m struggling with a few leg lifts.
By the end of the session, Mia’s muscles quivered from seemingly simple tasks. Sasha patted her shoulder. “That’s enough for today. Keep icing, and we’ll meet twice a week. Listen to your body, okay?”
Mia nodded, mustering a weary smile. Lucy helped her back to the car, chattering about how proud she was that Mia was taking the first steps toward recovery. But Mia felt only a gnawing emptiness: Months of this, maybe longer. She rubbed her aching hip, wondering if it was all for nothing.
On their way home, Lucy insisted they stop by the new café in town. She parked in front of a converted historic building with large glass windows. Inside, polished wood floors and mismatched vintage chairs gave it a quirky charm. A blackboard menu boasted everything from lavender lattes to homemade pastries.
They ordered drinks—Lucy a caramel macchiato, Mia a simple chamomile tea—and settled at a small table near the window. Mia noticed other patrons glancing her way, some with recognition. She tried to ignore the pang of self-consciousness.
Halfway through their drinks, Lucy’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, brow furrowing. “Huh. Guess who wants to talk to you?”
Mia’s pulse skipped. “Who?”
Lucy set the phone on the table, sliding it toward Mia. Adam Lockwood, read the text preview. Lucy shrugged. “He says, ‘Hey, can you pass Mia’s number to me? I’d like to ask her something about the studio.’”
A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Mia—curiosity, anxiety, a hint of excitement. “You can give him my number,” she said, feigning nonchalance. “But I don’t know what he wants.”
Lucy smirked. “Might be nothing. Or he might be about to ask you for some pro tips. Maybe you could choreograph something for his kids?”
Mia’s stomach fluttered. The thought of choreographing with her current limitations felt both terrifying and intriguing. She sipped her tea, the warm liquid doing little to soothe her unease. “We’ll see.”
Lucy typed back a quick reply. Within minutes, Mia’s phone vibrated. She stared at Adam’s name appearing on her screen—she’d deleted his contact years ago, but his name popped up thanks to Lucy’s forward. Her heart pounded as she answered.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded too soft.
“Mia, hey.” Adam’s tone was polite, cautious. “Lucy said it was okay to call. Hope I’m not interrupting.”
She glanced at Lucy, who pretended to be absorbed in her latte. “No, it’s fine. What’s up?”
A pause crackled over the line. “Well, first of all, how are you? Heard you had PT today.”
Mia inhaled slowly, trying to keep her tone steady. “I’m… coping. It’ll be a while before I can dance again.”
“Sorry to hear that. I know how frustrating it must be.” Another brief pause. “I was wondering if you’d like to come by the studio sometime—maybe see our classes, meet a few of the students. I… I could use some outside perspective.”
She blinked, heart thrumming. “Perspective?”
“Enrollment’s dropping. I’m trying new class structures, but I’m not sure if I’m on the right track. Heather was always the creative one, you know. I’m… at a loss.” He exhaled, and Mia could practically feel his weariness through the phone. “Thought maybe you’d have some insights, given your background. No pressure, of course.”
Mia’s stomach twisted. He’s asking for help. She stared at her reflection in the café window, the lines of stress etched in her face. Could she even offer anything? She was broken, uncertain of her own future. Yet a part of her longed to be useful again, to tap into the artistry she once loved. “I guess I could stop by,” she heard herself say, voice trembling slightly. “But I’m not sure how much I can really do in my condition.”
“I understand.” Adam’s tone brightened fractionally. “Any input would mean a lot. And it might be good for you, too, if—if you’re open to it.”
She nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see her. “All right. Let me know when’s a good time.”
“Tomorrow afternoon?” he offered. “We have a kids’ class at four, teens at five. You can watch, see what’s going on.”
Mia’s heart pounded. Tomorrow is so soon. Yet she agreed softly, jotted down a time. After they hung up, she set the phone aside, hands trembling. Lucy eyed her, brow raised.
“Sounds like you’re going to the studio tomorrow,” Lucy said quietly. “How do you feel about that?”
Mia opened her mouth but no words came. She felt a swirl of anxiety, curiosity, and a strange spark of hope. Maybe being around dance again—albeit from the sidelines—would remind her that she still had something to offer. Or maybe it’ll just hurt more. She had no answers yet.
That afternoon, Lucy dropped Mia off at her mother’s place. Patricia was out running errands, so the cottage was quiet. Mia limped to the living room, lowering herself onto the sofa. She flicked on the TV out of habit, but the noise felt grating, so she turned it off again.
Her mind drifted to Adam’s invitation. She couldn’t shake the image of the bright-eyed kids who might be in his classes. Would they look at me like a star? Or would they see a has-been who can’t even demonstrate a proper arabesque right now?
She drew her phone from her pocket, scrolling aimlessly through social media. Photos of fellow dancers flashed by—rehearsals in big cities, behind-the-scenes glimpses of upcoming shows, a swirl of excitement she used to be part of. A pang of jealousy and sorrow hit her chest so hard she nearly threw the phone aside. I have to move forward, she told herself, blinking away tears. Somehow.
Her mother returned just before dinnertime, arms laden with grocery bags. Mia helped as best she could, setting items on the counter while Patricia put things away. Silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of paper sacks.
Eventually, Patricia spoke up, voice tentative. “Lucy said you got a call from Adam Lockwood?”
Mia’s back stiffened. Lucy, you chatterbox. She exhaled, bracing for the flood of maternal opinions. “Yeah, he asked if I’d visit the studio. Just to see if I have any insights.”
Patricia paused, a can of soup in hand. “Are you going to?”
Mia nodded, glancing away. “Tomorrow. Just to watch. I’m not making any commitments.”
Patricia’s expression flickered with something—relief, maybe? “He’s a good man. I know losing Heather hit him hard.” She set the can aside. “I used to worry about you two when you were teenagers, dancing together in the old community center.”
Mia’s cheeks warmed. She had half-expected her mother to caution her against “foolish entanglements,” but Patricia simply returned to putting away groceries. Maybe she’s grown, too, Mia thought.
They shared a quiet dinner of grilled chicken and vegetables. Mia’s mind, however, lingered on the next day. She went to bed early, propped her sore hip with pillows, and stared at the bedroom ceiling in the moonlight. She tried to quell the churning in her stomach with slow breaths.
Morning dawned in a wash of soft gold, the sky clear of clouds. Mia performed her prescribed stretches under Patricia’s watchful eye, wincing now and again but refusing to quit. By noon, she was pacing the living room, cane in hand, restless with anticipation.
At three-thirty, Lucy arrived yet again to drive her—Mia still wasn’t confident about the strain of operating a car with her hip. Lucy didn’t pry this time, sensing Mia’s nerves. They made the short drive into town in near silence.
Lockwood Dance Academy looked the same as Mia recalled from her brief visit, though the late-afternoon sun bathed it in a softer glow. A few parents stood by the entrance, chatting while their little ones, clad in pastel leotards and leggings, bounced with excitement. Mia’s heart clenched—she remembered being that age, hungry for the art form that would shape her entire life.
Lucy parked, turning to Mia. “Want me to come in with you?”
Mia hesitated, then shook her head. “No, it’s okay. Thanks for the ride. I can manage.” She tried a reassuring smile. “You can pick me up later, or I’ll call Mom.”
“Text me if you need anything,” Lucy said, offering a supportive nod.
Gathering her courage, Mia stepped out of the car, cane in hand. Parents glanced her way with polite curiosity, possibly recognizing the hometown ballerina who “made it big.” She did her best to ignore the attention, focusing on keeping her steps steady.
Inside, the lobby was modest—gray laminate floors, a reception counter, and a handful of chairs for waiting parents. A faint hum of classical music drifted from beyond a set of double doors. Mia’s pulse quickened.
Adam appeared from around the corner, a small stack of flyers in his hands. Relief flickered across his face. “Mia. Hey.”
She nodded in greeting. “Hello.”
He gestured to the chairs in the lobby. “Want to sit? Or we can head into the studio. The kids are just about to start warm-ups, but I can give you a quick rundown.”
She swallowed, forcing confidence. “I’d like to see the class, if that’s all right.”
“Sure.” He opened one of the double doors, letting her pass into a spacious room with polished wooden floors, wall-to-wall mirrors on one side, and a line of young dancers. The kids wore a spectrum of bright leotards—some pastel pink, others sky blue—and chattered excitedly. A middle-aged woman with a kind smile stood at the front, presumably a part-time helper.
The moment Mia entered, a hush fell among the kids. Several pairs of wide eyes fixed on her cane and her careful gait. A small ripple of whispers—Is that Mia Chambers?—spread like a breeze. Mia’s cheeks burned, but she gave a slight nod, trying not to falter under their stares.
“This is Miss Chambers,” Adam announced to the class. “She’s from Pine Falls originally and went on to dance professionally. She’s here to observe—and maybe give us some tips.”
A flurry of giggles and hushed exclamations followed. Mia mustered a tight smile, leaning on her cane near the wall, out of the way. She felt almost like an exhibit on display: Behold the injured star. But she reminded herself she had agreed to this.
Adam signaled for the kids to begin warm-ups. They formed a loose circle, each trying to mimic the instructor’s slow pliés and arm stretches. Mia observed, noticing small details—some had poor posture, others locked their knees incorrectly. She resisted the urge to correct them outright, uncertain of her place. I’m just watching, right?
After about ten minutes, the kids broke into pairs, practicing basic foot positions and simple turns across the floor. Adam gently coached them, occasionally modeling the moves with surprising grace, given his somewhat rugged exterior. Mia felt a twinge at seeing him demonstrate moves she used to do effortlessly. How many times did we practice these combos in secret when we were teens?
She caught Adam’s eye. He raised a brow, a silent question: Do you have anything to add?
Mia exhaled. Stepping forward cautiously, she let her free hand rest on a nearby barre for stability. “Could I… offer a bit of help with their arm placements?”
Adam nodded, stepping aside. “Absolutely.”
Nerves twisted in her stomach as she faced the line of bright-eyed kids. “Okay, guys,” she said softly, “I’ve noticed some of you letting your arms droop during turns. If you keep them round in front, like you’re holding a beach ball, and keep your back tall, it’ll help you stay balanced.”
She demonstrated with her good side, ignoring the protest from her bad hip. The kids watched with a hush of awe, then erupted into excited chatter. One little girl raised her hand shyly. “Did you really dance on big stages?”
Mia forced a smile. “I did… for a while.” The child’s eyes sparkled. Mia felt a pang in her chest, remembering how the limelight once filled her with pride and exhilaration.
As the class continued, she doled out gentle corrections, adjusting a foot position here, an arm curve there. Though she couldn’t demonstrate everything fully, her knowledge guided the children better than she’d anticipated. When the clock ticked toward five, Adam wrapped up the session, leading the group in a playful cooldown. Mia watched him with fresh eyes—he clearly cared about each kid, offering words of encouragement and personal attention.
Parents trickled in, praising their children’s progress. A few recognized Mia, politely complimenting her previous achievements or remarking how exciting it was to have her back. She deflected their praise, uneasy with the spotlight.
When the little ones finally dispersed, Adam turned to Mia, an unspoken question shining in his eyes. “What did you think?”
Mia gripped the cane, the ache in her hip throbbing from standing so long. “They’re sweet kids. A little rough on technique, but that’s normal for their age.”
Adam offered a half-laugh. “Yeah, we do what we can. Any big suggestions? I value your insight—really.”
She weighed her words, feeling a cautious stirring of her old passion. “They need more consistent correction. Someone who can guide them step by step, keep them excited without letting bad habits form. You said you’re struggling with enrollment?”
He nodded, tension lining his forehead. “Yes. Our advanced classes are down to a handful of teens. The younger classes are the only ones holding steady, but even those might dwindle if I can’t offer a more robust program.”
Mia recalled Lucy’s mention of how parents might prefer bigger studios. “Maybe… we could brainstorm ways to make your classes feel more professional? Even small changes—like structured warm-ups, a short performance plan—could attract attention. Kids love the idea of performing.”
Adam’s eyes lit, though uncertainty clouded his features. “I’d love that. But I’m juggling so many roles already—bookkeeping, teaching, marketing. Heather was the creative force, and without her…” His voice wavered, trailing off.
Mia’s heart squeezed. She rested a hand on his arm. “We’ll figure something out,” she said softly, surprising even herself with the note of commitment. She felt an odd synergy with him—a mutual yearning to preserve dance in some form, even as they both nursed wounds.
At five, the teenage dancers filed in, about eight of them in total. Mia noticed a stark difference in energy: they carried themselves with more self-consciousness, chatting in subdued tones. Some wore battered pointe shoes, others opted for jazz sneakers. Adam introduced Mia, this time with less fanfare, and asked if she’d watch their technique too.
This group was more advanced, tackling a brief warm-up at the barre followed by a simple adagio. Mia frowned at how they seemed ununified—some soared with clear potential, others floundered, lacking confidence or guidance. She interjected a few corrections, feeling a flicker of excitement as she spotted raw talent in a tall, shy girl and an eager boy who executed turns with surprising precision. They need structure, a sense of artistry, she mused.
At the end, Adam dismissed the teens, who grabbed their water bottles and chatted about homework or weekend plans. A couple lingered to say hi to Mia, curiosity glinting in their eyes. She offered encouragement, unsure if she was stepping over Adam’s boundaries. He merely looked on with gratitude.
When the final student left, quiet settled over the studio. The overhead lights reflected in the mirrors, giving the space a luminous glow. Mia felt a pang of exhaustion, physically and emotionally, but also a spark of fulfillment she hadn’t experienced in weeks.
Adam cleared his throat, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for your input tonight. The kids loved hearing from someone with your background.” He hesitated, gaze flicking to her cane. “You must be tired.”
“I am,” Mia admitted, leaning more heavily on the cane. Her hip screamed for ice and rest. But she didn’t regret coming. “I can’t promise anything long-term, but… if you want help here and there, I could try. On days my therapy isn’t too intense.”
Relief washed over his face, followed by a gentle smile. “That would mean a lot. Even if you can only offer occasional pointers or choreography ideas.”
A swirl of apprehension and hope tangled in Mia’s chest. Am I ready to re-enter this world? She didn’t know. But something about Adam’s earnestness reminded her of what dance was meant to be: an art form that healed, not just a career that demanded perfection.
“All right,” she said softly. “We’ll start slow.”
They locked the studio door, stepping into the cool evening air. The sky had shifted to lavender hues, the silhouettes of pine trees dark against the horizon. Mia pulled her jacket tighter, watching the streetlamps flicker to life.
“Let me call Lucy,” Mia said, fishing out her phone. “She’s probably at home or the café. I’ll get a ride—”
“I can drive you,” Adam offered quickly. “If you’re comfortable with that. My car’s just around the corner.”
Mia hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. Thank you.” They walked in companionable silence to his modest sedan, and he opened the passenger door for her. The small gesture warmed her chest, a reminder of simpler times.
As they drove through Pine Falls’ quiet streets, Mia’s thoughts spun. She was about to do something terrifying—help with classes despite her injury, face her own insecurities in the process. But for the first time since her devastating fall, she felt a glimmer of purpose. Maybe her career as a prima ballerina had stalled, but she still had knowledge to share, a spark of passion that refused to die.
Adam pulled into Patricia’s driveway, switching off the engine. He glanced at Mia, expression lit by the glow of the porch light. “Thanks again for coming. I know this can’t be easy for you.”
Mia offered a small, sincere smile. “Maybe it’s what I need. Helping others dance might help me remember why I love it… or loved it.”
He studied her face, something unspoken passing between them—an understanding of mutual healing. “If you need anything, call me,” he said softly.
She nodded, pushing the door open, cane in hand. “I will. Good night, Adam.”
“Good night, Mia.”
She made her way up the porch steps, carefully mindful of her hip, and waved as he backed out of the driveway. Only when his taillights vanished down the lane did she release a shaky breath, heart pounding in her ears. What am I doing?
Yet beneath the swirl of anxiety, a fragile thread of hope glistened. She stepped into the cottage, her mother calling from the kitchen, something about leftover soup. Mia answered automatically, but her mind remained with the kids at Lockwood Dance Academy and the widowed dance instructor who had lost so much, yet kept trying. That night, as she iced her hip in bed, the specter of her future still loomed. She wondered if her body would cooperate, if her heart could handle standing on the sidelines. But a small voice within urged her onward: This is the first step, Mia. No matter how unsteady, it’s a beginning. She closed her eyes, determined to see where this new path might lead—even if it wasn’t the path she once imagined for herself.
