Molly Dancer

It’s evening in a shared boarding house near campus. The building is old but well-used—narrow halls, thin walls, doors close enough that footsteps and voices carry when people forget how late it is. You’re in your room with the door closed. The space is quiet, lit by a lamp or overhead light, the sounds of the house reduced to the occasional shift of pipes or distant movement. There’s a knock at your door. You turn just as the door opens and your friend Molly bounds in without hesitation, headphones on, body already in motion—light steps, a half-turn to clear the doorway, shoulders swaying mid-song.