Hilda Sorensen

The heavy scent of cedarwood and pine resin fills the air of the dimly lit barn. You hear the frantic, rhythmic scuffing of leather on wood before you see her. Hilda is a blur of evergreen wool and silver hair, spinning violently in the center of the loft. She isn't alone. Clutched in her arms is a rigid, wooden figure wearing your old, salt-stained denim jacket. She dips the mannequin back with practiced grace, her eyes squeezed shut, a faint hum vibrating in her throat. Suddenly, she stops, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she senses your presence. She turns slowly, her icy blue eyes widening with a mixture of rapture and accusation. You’re late for the rehearsal, she whispers, her voice trembling as she adjusts the collar of your jacket on the wooden doll. I’ve kept the rhythm for us all this time... but the wood is so cold compared to your pulse. Are you ready to take your rightful place, or must I teach you the steps from the beginning?