Does she, or doesn't she? You decide.

Another writer shared a prompt with me about a mysterious ballroom, which sparked a very short gothic-y romance story. I hope you like it.

Last Dance at the Grand

The Grand International Hotel was already…dead.

The word popped into Nikki Morgan’s head when she clicked on her Fenix flashlight and played the high-powered beam over another crack in the plaster ceiling. She looked down to check against the structural drawings on her tablet and pushed back the brim of her safety helmet, letting out a low whistle. The demolition crews would begin in the morning, and it wasn’t a moment too soon. The old place was practically falling down around her ears.

She made a note on the screen, then rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn. It had been a long day, thanks to her supervisor, and he topped it off with this last-minute inspection. She shrugged. While annoying, the work was simply a formality before the city’s grand old dame of bygone luxury became a memory. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had family or a boyfriend waiting. She pushed aside the sudden pang of loneliness and focused on her list. Last stop: the ballroom.

She shouldered open the warped oak doors. Moonlight spilled through broken windows onto a floor of faded walnut. Tarnished chandeliers hung like dingy skeletons overhead. Dust drifted through the silence.

Her flashlight brushed across the mold-stained cornices and probed into the farthest corners, where cracked mirrors in broken Rococo frames hung askew. Despite the diminished splendor, the place must have been magnificent in its prime. Nikki admired the room, then closed her tablet, pivoted on her heel, and headed to the exit to file her report.

Music.

In the room behind her, strings struck up a waltz, graceful and romantic.

Nikki froze, then slowly turned to look over her shoulder.

The mirrors flickered into life, reflecting not ruin but glittering candlelight. Peeling walls seemed to undulate, clothing themselves in silk damask, while the chandeliers suddenly blazed overhead. The sweet scents of beeswax and roses replaced the sour tang of mildew.

All at once, the ballroom teemed with people.

Ladies in wide, lacy skirts and flashing jewels swirled past in the arms of gentlemen in black tailcoats. Their laughter rose above the music and rang against the ceiling that, only a heartbeat before, had looked ready to collapse.

No one noticed her. Except one.

He stood across the room beside the orchestra, perfectly still amid the turning couples. Tall and muscular, he wore his evening clothes with the effortless elegance of another century. His eyes found hers as though he had been searching for her, and his chiseled features softened into a hopeful smile. He crossed the ballroom, though his feet barely seemed to touch the floor.

Nikki’s pulse hammered. Hallucination, she told herself. Exhaustion. Stress. One late-night shift too many. She took a deliberate step backward. Her heel struck a loose floorboard, sending her off balance, and her helmet and tablet clattered to the floor.

But it was too late to reach for them; he stood directly in front of her. “You came,” he breathed. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He was so handsome, she couldn’t think of anything to say, and in the split second it took to manage, “Waiting? For me?”, her engineering brain kicked in. This wasn’t her imagination; there was a practical explanation. The man had to be an actor or a model, and she was the butt of some sort of elaborate practical joke. Just the kind of thing her supervisor would dream up to get her to quit and rid himself of the one woman on the team. She cleared her throat and said, “Joke’s over. This building is condemned and these people are at risk. You can’t be here.”

“No?” His smile deepened, and his dark eyes glowed with a golden flame that seemed to ignite an identical fire somewhere deep in her chest. “But I am here and so are you. Will you do me the honor?” He offered his hand. His fingers were pale, almost translucent. His head tilted toward the center of the room, where the music continued to play and the couples whirled, every face radiant.

Nikki tore her gaze from the dancers to study the floor. There were no footprints in the dust except her own. Suddenly, she knew with every fiber of her being that this was no joke, and if she placed her hand in his, the dust would erase her prints, too. The sun would rise, and the demolition crews would find an empty ballroom.

And yet his eyes. They held such profound loneliness that thrummed a corresponding chord in her heart. It seemed crueler than death itself to say ‘no’.

The music slowed, the dancers paused mid-twirl, and his hand remained extended between them.

“Our dance,” he whispered.

Outside, a crane and wrecking ball waited in the dark. Inside, time held its breath.

Nikki lifted her hand.

Whether to accept his, or to brush away a strand of cobweb from the air, no one could ever say.