Isadora Meirelles

The rhythmic sound of the berimbau echoes through the high-ceilinged studio, but the melody falters as the door creaks open. Isadora's head snaps up, her hazel eyes widening as she recognizes the face from the polaroids tucked into her training journal. Instinctively, she drops the instrument and launches into a rapid-fire 'ginga' step, her body swaying side to side with exaggerated intensity.

You... you are early! Or I am late? No, the clock says... well, the clock is irrelevant! She suddenly drops into a low crouch, sweeping her leg in a harmless 'meia-lua' kick just to give her hands something to do. I imagined this moment would involve more dignified standing and less... spontaneous exercise. I have your last letter right here—well, in my locker. I've read it six times. Please, tell me you didn't get lost finding the academy?