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Astromind & The dancing Woman ( A short story)

Writer's picture: himalaya himhimalaya him

Updated: Feb 5

It was August 2011, in the heart of St. Petersburg, Russia. The air was cool, yet alive with anticipation. A small gathering of around a hundred people had assembled in an open space, tucked away from the city's usual rhythm. At the center of it all was a Russian DJ known as Astromind, a master of Psychill music. His sets were famous for transporting listeners into otherworldly realms, and tonight was no different.

At exactly 9 PM, he stepped onto the stage, a calm but magnetic presence. Behind him, a massive screen lit up, pulsating with hypnotic visual patterns synced perfectly to his soundscape. The first few notes drifted into the night like a whisper, slowly building, as the crowd eased into their drinks and quiet conversation.

Fifteen minutes in, I noticed her. A woman at the very front, standing alone, began to move. Her dancing wasn’t calculated or self-conscious, it was pure, unfiltered joy. Her body seemed to flow effortlessly with the music, as if she and the sound were one. I stood at the back, watching the visuals on the screen, but my eyes kept returning to her.

There was something magnetic about her presence. She wasn’t just dancing; she was living every beat, every note, as if the music were healing something deep inside her. Her joy was so unrestrained, so rare, that it struck a chord within me. I’d never seen anyone move like that, completely unburdened by the world.

As Astromind’s set deepened, so did the atmosphere. The music was a tapestry of ambient textures and gentle beats, pulling us all into a shared dream. The tempo was unhurried, yet it carried a power that made every sound feel monumental. I could feel it in my chest, in my mind—an overwhelming sense of being somewhere extraordinary, somewhere words couldn’t reach.

Her energy was contagious. Slowly, others in the crowd began to dance too, drawn in by her infectious spirit. People who had been standing still, sipping drinks and chatting, found themselves unable to resist. It was as if she had opened a door, and the rest of us were stepping through it.

The night wore on, and yet she never stopped. Her movements remained just as vibrant, just as joyous, as when she began. By 11 PM, many were watching her in awe, their own energy waning while hers seemed endless.

But then, as the final track began to play, something shifted. I saw her pause for the first time. Her smile faltered, and a shadow crossed her face. As the music began to fade, so did her light, and by the time Astromind’s set ended, she looked on the verge of tears.




Astromind himself noticed her. He stepped off the stage, walked over, and exchanged a few quiet words with her. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I saw the way he placed a hand on her shoulder—a gesture of understanding, perhaps even consolation. Others approached her too, offering words of appreciation for the energy she had brought to the night.

I didn’t join them. I wanted to, but something held me back. Instead, I caught her gaze from a distance. Her eyes were deep, layered, as if they held an entire world of untold stories. Beneath the vibrant energy she had shared with us all, I could see it—pain, raw and unspoken.

I left the party at midnight, the music still echoing in my mind. For days, I couldn’t shake the memory of her—the way she danced, the way she felt so alive, yet carried a sadness that seemed to anchor her joy.

I never learned her name or her story. But I had never seen anyone like her before, there was something special about her, something beyond explanation. That night felt different, almost as if some mysterious force had made her dance the way she did. It wasn’t just music or joy; it was something deeper, something I couldn’t quite grasp. Perhaps when the right music plays under the right sky, I might witness something like that again.

And then, years later, I did.


I was sitting in a quiet café, far from St. Petersburg, lost in my work on my laptop. The place was peaceful, filled with the soft murmur of conversations and the occasional clink of coffee cups. Then, without warning, a familiar sound drifted through the speakers—a Psychill track, the kind that had played that night years ago.


A strange feeling washed over me. I looked up, and there she was.



Sitting at a corner table, facing away, but I knew. Her posture, the way her fingers lightly tapped against the table, moving with the rhythm—there was no mistake. My pulse quickened. Was it really her? After all these years?


As if sensing my gaze, she turned. Our eyes met, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch. She smiled—soft, knowing, just like before.


She stood up, walked past my table, and as she did, she leaned slightly toward me. Her voice was barely a whisper, but I heard it clearly.


"You finally heard it again."


I turned to respond, to ask her something—anything—but she was already at the door. The café bell chimed as she stepped outside.

I closed my laptop, stepping out onto the dimly lit street. But she was gone. No sign of her, no trace of where she had gone. Just the fading echoes of the music inside and the same question lingering in my mind—


Had she ever really been there at all?



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