Once upon a time—not so long ago, and not so far from here—there was a girl.

She sat in the doorway of a crumbling shop, the kind you might walk past without noticing. Its windows were smeared with dust, its sign faded beyond recognition, the name of the original owner lost beneath years of graffiti and grime.

The girl was small and still. She kept her knees tucked to her chest, her head bowed, her dark shape barely distinct from the shadows behind her. There was nothing remarkable about her. In fact, hardly anyone noticed she was there at all.

No one knew how long she had been sitting in that doorway. A day? A week? A year? It was hard to say. No one asked. No one thought to.

They simply went about their day, walking past her as though she were part of the pavement.

Then one day—on a morning like any other, beneath the same dull sky and hurried footsteps—something changed.

The girl was no longer alone in the doorway.

Lying beside her, quiet and unmoving, was a mule.

The people of the town noticed the mule at once.

“A mule? In the doorway?” they cried. “Where did it come from?”

“Must have escaped from a farm,” someone suggested.

The farmer was called. He checked his stables and returned shaking his head. “Mine’s still here,” he said.

A ripple of panic spread through the town.

“It’s wild!”

“It’ll kick someone!”

“What if it bites the children?”

Soon, the emergency services were summoned—firemen, veterinarians, even the mayor. All stood before the doorway, deciding what to do with this dangerous, unpredictable beast.

No one mentioned the girl.

Then, as the vet stepped forward, something unexpected happened.

The mule rose to its feet. It did not kick. It did not run. It danced.

At first the crowd thought their eyes deceived them. But there he was—hooves lifting, swaying side to side, performing a slow, joyful jig.

Gasps turned to laughter. Fear gave way to fascination.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” someone whispered.

They clapped. They cheered. They called it magical.

When the mule finished, he bowed, then curled himself once more beside the girl—who had not moved, not even to raise her head.

From that moment, the people came daily to watch him dance. They brought carrots and apples and blankets. They spoke of his talent, his mystery, his grace.

Their eyes sparkled with delight, fixed always on the mule.

Never on the girl.

“This creature is too special to sleep in a doorway,” someone said.

“You’re right,” agreed another. “He should come home with me.”

“I have a stable—warm, spacious. He’ll be comfortable there.”

But the mule would not budge. No tugging or tempting could coax him from the girl’s side. He remained curled in the shadow of the shop, just as he had been.

In the end, the townspeople gave up. Let him stay, they said. For now.

And so each morning, the mule danced.

He danced for children clutching sweets, for women with shopping bags, for men on their way to work. The crowd clapped along, cheering, delighted.

When the dance was done, he returned to the doorway and lay beside the girl.

Each night, blankets were left for him, and bowls of food. The townspeople chuckled kindly at his stubborn loyalty, shaking their heads as they glanced toward the shopfront.

“What a strange place to sleep,” they said.

None of them wondered why the girl never moved.

It wasn’t long before word spread.

People came from neighbouring towns, drawn by whispers of a dancing mule. Journalists, tourists, children on school trips. They jostled for space on the street, cameras ready, eager for the show.

And the mule never disappointed.

He danced with slow precision and sudden joy. He spun in circles, lifted his hooves in perfect rhythm, even paused for applause. Some said he had the soul of a poet. Others swore he could understand every word.

Crowds roared with laughter, clapped until their hands stung. They brought gifts—flowers, treats, embroidered rugs. They lined the pavement, waiting for the curtain to rise.

When the show ended, the mule would bow and return to his spot beside the girl.

Still, no one saw her.

She remained curled in the doorway, head lowered, unmoving—just as she had always been.

The applause rained down like confetti, but none of it fell on her.

Then one morning, without warning, the mule was gone.

The crowd arrived as they always did—expectant, chattering, pressing close to the doorway. But there was no dance, no bow, no gentle eyes or stamping hooves. Only the girl remained.

They stared at the empty space beside her.

“Where has he gone?” someone asked.

“Maybe he’ll come back tomorrow,” said another, too brightly.

But tomorrow came. And the next. And the one after that. The doorway stayed the same—cold, cracked, and still—but the mule never returned.

Gradually, the crowd thinned. The cameras disappeared. The food stopped arriving. People passed the shop without slowing, without looking.

Well—almost.

Now and then, someone would glance sideways as they hurried by, eyes fixed not on the girl, but on the spot where the mule used to lie.

One day, a mother walked down the street with her young son. She paused by the old shop and sighed.

“I miss the mule,” she said. “He was such a joy.”

She lingered a moment, lost in memory, then turned to leave.

But her son didn’t follow.

He stood still, eyes fixed on the doorway.

“The mule’s not coming today,” the mother said. “Come along.”

The boy tugged at her sleeve. “Do you think the mule belonged to the girl?”

“The girl?” she asked, frowning.

He pointed. “That girl. There.”

The mother turned—and for the first time, she saw her.

The girl, folded in the shadows, knees drawn to her chest, skin pale and cracked from the cold. Eyes swollen. Lips dry.

“Oh,” whispered the mother. “Oh, my.”

Others noticed her then. They gathered quickly, curious, hopeful—thinking the mule might have returned. But all they found was the girl.

“Who is she?” someone asked.

“She looks filthy.”

“She shouldn’t be here. What if the mule comes back?”

“She’ll scare him away.”

And while they argued—about what to do, and whose problem she was, and how to remove her—no one noticed the girl rise and walk away.

She slipped from the doorway as quietly as she had come. No one called after her.

Eventually, the crowd dispersed, muttering about the good old days, when the mule used to dance right there on that very spot.

They remembered his rhythm. His sparkle. His grace.

But none of them could quite recall the girl.

⸻

It’s a long road between towns.

Travellers speak sometimes of a mule they’ve seen—alone on the path, kicking up little clouds of dust, moving with something like purpose, something like joy.

But none of them notice the girl who walks beside him.