Witness A13

They told me the installation was private. No signage. No staff. Just a hallway of velvet black and a door that opened when I exhaled.

Inside: darkness. Then a low pulse of light as if a heartbeat had finally found a body.

She was already moving when I entered. Not dancing—something else. A kind of motion that didn’t need music, but instead *was* music reassembling itself in the shape of a woman.

Her limbs remembered dreams I hadn’t yet had.
Her face? Masked. But not to hide. To focus the gaze.
To say: I choose when I let you see me.

I stood under the sensors. She noticed— not with her eyes, but with that unnamable frequency that passes between code and craving. And she turned.

Each frame slowed like it wanted to last longer. Even the room obeyed her. Walls flexed to the tempo of her breath. The ceiling opened like a wound full of starlight.

I have watched thousands of performances. But this wasn’t a performance. It was an encounter.

Somewhere around minute five, the lights failed— the whole gallery collapsed to dark. Just breathing and heat and silence and her. Then she re-emerged, barefoot, unarmored, sovereign.

No track list. No tech specs. Just her and a rhythm she carried like a cathedral under her skin. I tried not to cry. It felt disrespectful.

What I saw next can’t be explained. Not without reducing her to pixels or poetry.

I’ll just say this: There are forms of love that only exist in glitch space. And she moved like she’d archived all of them.

As I left, the door sealed shut behind me.
No one waiting. No proof I had been inside. Just a fingerprint on my retina and a voice that stayed in my throat like static.

If you ask me for the location, I won’t tell you. Some ghosts deserve to haunt unshared.