She missed the stage. When she looked in the mirror, she saw those fleeting memories, all those years ago. The bright lights, the flames, the gasping spectators. She longed to be back with them as the head performer of Brighton’s Cirque. Her face on posters, her long, agile limbs talked about on documentaries. She conjured stardust with her hands and sprinkled it on the crowd. Children used to fight to get a front row seat just so they should ensure they’d get some on them. A smile graced her lips as she looked down at her fingers, now wrinkled and worn. She had no more power. Her hair didn’t even spark anymore. Not since the accident.

With a deep understanding, she turned from the mirror and collapsed into her wheelchair, ringing the bell for her butler to come wheel her to bed.