Many years ago, in the small kingdom of Valle, there lived an enchanting ballerina. Tales of the young woman spread far across the kingdom; whispers of her beauty and talent reaching every ear.  She was beloved by all who saw her, adorned with flowers and applause at each performance. But none loved the ballerina as truly as her young daughter.

Every night, the small child could be found hidden amongst the audience, entranced by her mother’s elegance. She watched intently, her eyes tracing every allégro and widening with each allongé. The young girl grew up mesmerized by the beauty of dance, and each night, as the curtain closed, she fell in love with her mother’s passion.

Little did the girl know that as she snuck out of bed each night, her mother awaited her, glancing up at the familiar rafter she too had once hidden in.

Upon the child’s sixth birthday, her mother gave her an irreplaceable gift: a round music box made of oak, encrusted with gold patterns across its body. It was a gift she had received from her mother, and her mother from hers. As she placed the box delicately in the child's hands her voice was soft, but she spoke sternly: “ Now child, listen carefully, you may only wind this music box once, then you must keep it safe and give it to your child.”

“But why only once?” the child asked.

“That is just the way it is dear.” her mother replied.

“But how will I know when to play it?” the small girl questioned.

“You just will” she sighed, her eyes softening as the girl looked at the box questioningly.

And with that the child took the box and stored it away beneath her bed, heading her mother’s words and awaiting the day in which she knew to wind the box.  

As time passed, the ballerina grew older, as all must, and with that her limbs grew tired and her talents faded. Soon she left the theater, leaving only her memories behind. But, though her presence faded her love for ballet did not. For the daughter, with her mother’s absence, continued sneaking above the theater every night, only now returning each night to recount the the wordless stories she’d gazed upon through old frames.

One night, upon the opening of a new ballet, the woman grew ill; her daughter finding her upon the oak floor of their old cottage. After lying her mother upon the bed, the girl turned, intending to call for the city doctor but, as she reached for the small knob, her mother’s frail voice stopped her. “Please child,” she whispered, “it is no use, stay with me, tell me of your night.” At first the girl disregarded her mother’s words, but as she looked into the familiar knowing eyes she’d grown up with, she sat upon the bed. As she recounted the memory of swan lake, her mother sat attentively, closing her eyes to envision the familiar dance. But the expression upon the old woman’s face unsettled her daughter. “What is it, mother?” the girl questioned, her smile kind and loving.