Last Dance

At the edge of the known and full-facing the edge of mystery stood Last Dance, Montana. The tumble of cabins and livelihood never had a population that reached into the thousands, except that one time in 1954 when Mrs. Levitt had surprise twins and brought the tally to a cool 1k before the old greengrocer had a heart attack and died a month later. Last Dance got its name from half a joke and half a truth. The founder took one look at the heavy mountains sheathing the scrap of land and commented to his wife that from here on, there’d be no room for mirth or celebration once they moved past and into the unknown. She’d smiled and told him that this was a place for weariness, love, and one last dance.  

The people of Last Dance lived by this simple creed: though they hadn’t much, and hunger lit a flame under them most days, the hills would always bounce and rock with their roaring voices as they sung and danced through their labor. This pocket of worth was never silent; it’s said that on some still nights, music from a week past can come floating back on the mountain breeze. Babies were born dancing, old’uns died with a tap of th’ foot, and the soul of Last Dance swelled into a comfortable place within those cold, hard slopes.  

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