That evening was amazing. Eva danced the whole night at the ball and won the award for the best dancer of the evening. The music was intoxicating, the lights danced on the walls, and she felt like a queen. Every movement of her body was graceful and light, her slender legs seeming like they belonged to a fairy. The other guests admired her—men asked her to dance, and women watched her with jealousy. When the evening ended and she was announced as the best dancer, the applause filled the hall. But at one table, she noticed a gaze full of hatred. She didn’t give it much thought. Maybe she should have.

The sun woke her in the morning. She stretched and tried to jump out of bed as usual, but something was wrong. Her legs remained heavy, motionless, as if someone had tied them to the mattress. She sat up and pulled the blanket away. What she saw took her breath away. Instead of her beautiful, slender legs, there were two enormous, massive elephant limbs. The skin was gray, rough, and wrinkled. Her toes had turned into thick stumps.

She screamed. Her scream was a mix of shock, terror, and helplessness. Her mother rushed into the room. “What’s wrong?” she asked worriedly.

“Look at my legs!” Eva could barely breathe.

Her mother looked at them and remained calm. “What’s wrong with them? They’re the same as always.”

“Just look! They’re elephant legs!” Eva was trembling.

“Well, yes, that’s how you were born.” Her mother shrugged and left the room as if nothing had happened.

Eva sat there, stunned. Thoughts whirled in her mind. How could no one find this strange? Slowly, she swung her heavy legs over the edge of the bed. They landed with a dull thud. She tried to stand up, but it was like lifting concrete blocks. Every movement was laborious and clumsy. She reached her wardrobe and found that her underwear now had enormous openings for her legs. Her skirt and shirt fit fine, but there were no shoes. Not even socks.

In the living room, her sisters and their husbands greeted her. They smiled as if everything were normal. Eva burst into tears. “Look at my legs! What’s happened to me?”

“What do you mean? They’ve always been like that,” one of her sisters said.

“How could I have danced at the ball with these?” she asked desperately.

“You don’t dance. You just sat there like always,” her sister replied indifferently.

The doorbell rang. Her friend Karla entered the apartment. “Come on, we’re going to that exhibition,” she urged.

Eva struggled to the hallway and searched for shoes. “What are you looking for?” Karla asked.

“Shoes.”

“But you don’t wear shoes. They never fit.”

The walk to the car was agonizing. Every pebble hurt, and walking was slow and exhausting. Getting into the car was an ordeal. Eva was sweating; every effort felt monumental.

At the exhibition, things got even worse. The corridors were long, her legs were heavy, and every step was draining. Eva could barely stay on her feet, but Karla didn’t notice a thing. People around them stared in amazement at her strange legs. She felt extremely uncomfortable. She snapped, “What are you all staring at? Mind your own business!” Karla looked at her questioningly. “Why are you acting like this? You’ve known for ages that nothing will change—you could have gotten used to it by now.”

After hours of exhausting walking, they finally returned home. Eva was on the verge of collapse. Hygiene was torture—lifting her heavy legs into the bathtub was almost impossible. The water barely eased her tense muscles. Finally, she fell into bed, exhausted and frightened.

The sun woke her again the next morning. “It must have been just a nightmare,” she thought. Hopeful, she pulled back the blanket—and the elephant legs were still there. A feeling of despair gripped her like a cold hand.