#tfc fic

The cast all stared curiously as they watched you gather everything even remotely soft within the tent that you could get your little hands on.

“Are they…?” Ticket Taker began, not daring to finish.

“They can’t be.” Jester rationalized, but he doubted his words.

“It really looks like…” Harlequin tilted his head as you jumped in order to make the last couple inches to reach a blanket on another bed due to the shackle’s limited range.

“But humans don’t…” The Doctor trailed off.

It was Pierrot who finally said it, fawning over how cute and homely you looked as you flitted about. “They’re nesting~!”

Jester scoffed. “Humans don’t have a nesting instinct except during late pregnancy. And it certainly doesn’t look like this.” He didn’t want to add the last thought, but he didn’t have to. Everyone knew it was there. They were all having it. Despite being a mere human, what you were doing… it resembled monster nesting.

“You must remember that at their base biology, humans are animals. It is possible that some of them may have a nesting instinct like ours that can be unlocked or is perhaps attached to a specific gene?” The Doctor mused, stepping forward to better observe your fascinating behavior.

Pierrot quickly stopped him with his arm, eyes narrowed. “Nesting cannot be interrupted. You know that.”

“They’re not nesting, Pierrot!” Harlequin growled, face riddled with denial. “This is probably just some human ritual we’ve never heard of!”

Ticket Taker hummed in thought as he watched you feel the material of each and every item you’d gathered before organizing them as you saw appropriate. “It certainly looks like they’re nesting.”

“Because they areeeee~!” Pierrot cooed, hands on his cheeks as he swooned.

By now, you had begun to meticulously start piling what you’d collected, carefully layering your chosen materials, which mostly consisted of blankets, sheets, and pillows. To keep everything fitted to the bed, you tucked in the sides that stuck out. When only a single blanket was left, you rimmed the nest with the pillows, using the grooves you’d made to keep them in place. Finally, when it seemed you were finished, you crawled within and settled down, resting your head upon one of the pillows as you covered yourself with the single remaining blanket. Your breathing promptly began to slow, the security of your creation soothing your nerves, body softly vibrating with something that vaguely resembled a faint, contented purr.

The monsters were completely silent. There was no more debate. That was a nest, and a damn cozy looking one at that. Impressive, given your lack of proper materials.

Pierrot stepped forth into the tent while the others continued to quietly observe in astonishment. “My dearest, what is this?” He asked. He knew, they all did, but he still needed confirmation from you.

“Nest…” You mumbled back, sinking further into the pile as your body curled more tightly in on itself. “Need comf… feels safe…”

That settled it.

He couldn’t help his next question. “Where did you learn to do that?” Perhaps you had a monster ancestor and the instinct was passed down to you? Maybe you knew one when you were younger? Or what if…

“Nowhere…” You murmured, voice getting quieter as you began to drift to sleep. “Just makes me feel safe…”

He wanted to ask more but he could tell with the way the rise and fall of your chest had slowed that you had officially slipped into slumber, and he didn’t wish to disturb you.

“Fascinating…” Doctor whispered and Pierrot let out a low hiss, not having realized the other cast members had approached. “They implied this was instinctive for them, but I have never heard of humans nesting in the way monsters might. I’m eager to learn more.” But as he reached for you, his hand was swatted away by Pierrot.

“Come now, Pierrot~ Let us see~” Harlequin coaxed, but his larger cast member stood his ground, eyes wide and wild. He resembled a protective mate, dutifully guarding his partner, even if he currently only qualified as a suitor. The green monster snickered as he taunted the golden eyed beast, whose snarls were growing louder and more ferocious by the second, muscles flexing beneath his costume.

“Let us compromise, Pierrot.” Jester intervened before the inevitable scuffle could take place. Pierrot turned to the purple clown, anger quieting out of respect for the ringmaster, though his teeth remained almost imperceptibly bared. “You know we’re all curious about this nest, though it is clear you value this… human’s safety. If you allow us to investigate while they are away from the nest, I will allow you to show them around the circus tomorrow.”

Pierrot growled low in thought, the sound a deep rumble from within his chest, mulling over the Jester’s offer. On the one hand, he did want to show you around, to acquaint you with his life. He knew so much about yours, but you knew so little about his. On the other hand, he knew that the sanctity of a nest was almost sacred to its builder. You had said you made it to feel safe, and he didn’t want to disturb that for you. But there was also the point of Jester’s great dislike of humans venturing too deep into their circus. For him to offer something like this… it meant his curiosity was intense, and it was not an opportunity to so quickly toss away.

The red clown instantly quieted as he heard you shift within the nest. As he stiffly turned to look at you and gazed upon your sleeping face, he felt his entire body relax. It was cruel of you to be so adorable in your sleep, teasing his desires when he couldn’t act upon them… He looked back at Jester. “Fine.” He said, accepting the leader’s terms. This arrangement would hopefully segway into allowing you permanent residence within the circus.

Jester nodded. “When they wake up then.”

—————————————

Pierrot took you out the next morning to show you around the circus, carefully unlocking your shackle and guiding you away. Once the cast saw you disappear among the tents, they made their way inside the tent Pierrot had stashed you in when he’d taken you and towards your bed. Towards your nest. They paused, examining it, but unsure of where to go next.

Jester made the first move, gently reaching out a hand and pressing it into the nest. He was surprised to find how soft and well put together it was. To see it was one thing. To feel it was another. The others decided to follow his lead.

“Incredible…” Doctor muttered.

“I’ve never felt a nest so comfortable,” Ticket Taker commented absentmindedly.

Harlequin didn’t bother saying anything. He just flopped down and made himself at home in the sanctuary.

“Harlequin!” The Jester hissed, only to be cut off by a sigh of utter bliss from the normally snarky menace.

All the muscles in the green monster’s body had gone completely lax as he stretched out amongst the softness before snuggling into it. “It’s so cozy…” The nest reminded him of a time long gone, when he was young and still had parents. When he didn’t quite know the cruelty of the world just yet. Something nostalgic. Something heavenly. Something… comforting.

The others were taken aback. To see Harlequin so… well… vulnerable? To say it was rare was an understatement. They couldn’t even remember the last time there had been such an occurrence.

Doctor joined him in the nest, Harlequin growling as he was pushed over to make room, seeing as he’d plopped himself down right in the middle. Almost the exact effect came over him. Same with Ticket Taker, the next to join, leaving only Jester remaining on the outside, watching as more than half the cast comfortably curled up in a nest made by a human. The purple clown sighed before relenting, the last thought he had before laying down being ‘It can’t be that amazing, can it?’

—————————————

By the time Pierrot brought you back to the tent you had woken up in, the entirety of the cast was asleep in your nest, nuzzling into the comfort you had so expertly crafted. Jester cracked open an eye when he sensed the presence of the naive monster and his human obsession. He groaned. “Fine… They can stay for now…” His voice came out in the form of a reluctant grumble, conveniently leaving out that he also meant you could stay alive for the time being. “But they need to make something like this for each of our tents for our own personal use…”

Oh beloved, he's not so sure this was a great idea after all! Oh, but he was weak, so utterly weak for you.

You heard his claws rake the wall behind you, but you were too focused on his cock. So huge, so strange, so… primal, even! In fact, the sounds of the wall's destruction, and the hissing pants and huffs above, just fueled your fixation, an almost-suffocating beastly fervor of your own stirring in your chest.

You had to keep going. No, you needed to keep going. You had to have more. You went even faster, gripping him stronger. Harder. Tighter.

Pierrot's jaw fell slack, tongue lolling out as he crushed and splintered the boards he so heavily leaned against - a distant thread of reason in his mind glad it was the wall and not you. Panting whimpers and pleas were pouring from his mouth, now that the dam of his teeth was broken. With each twitch of increased pressure from your palms around his throbbing dick, he whined, his hips giving frantic, jerking bucks from the cracks in his resolve.

The end was rushing to him at dreadful, glorious speed.

And you were in the way!

He tried to calm himself, but he could feel your heart pounding, hear your breath getting heavier. He could smell- no- taste the rapid pace your excitement climbed. Did… Did you want him to... to… All over you?

The thought made his head spin, and his back arch. He wasn't going to last much longer. Growls, deep and rumbling and predatory, began escaping his throat. His breath was coming hard and violently, as if his lungs and diaphragm were being crushed with each exhale.

He didn't want to, not so soon, how embarrassing! He had been dreading this, his inexperience shattering his discipline, like he was a mere juvenile. Yet… he couldn't stop thinking about you - how you weren't afraid, how you weren't trying to stop him, how you weren't moving out of the way. How you kept making it worse. You wanted him. You wanted him. It was clear as a bell striking his head. And you wanted his essence, all over you…?

"Oh wow, Pierrot…"

Your soft gasp gave the signal to give in. He helplessly humped into your grasp. He realized he could just barely feel the graze of your shirt against his sensitive tip, chest heaving while he lost control. His legs shifted to better thrust, body trembling... and then he glanced down. What he saw shoved him over the edge: You, completely enraptured with his cock, holding it closer than ever.

His head jerked up, eyes squeezing shut and spine curling, a whining "Ohh!" bursting from his mouth as he pushed himself into your loving grip.

You felt his cock stiffen and rapidly spasm in your hands. He was cumming, the pulse in his cock strong and powerful against your palms, and he was cumming a lot. His cock painted you with his seed in a barrage of thick, virile, healthy ropes over and over. You were practically pinned against the wall, allowing him to grind his member against your torso, your heartbeats thundering in unison so close together.

But your attention had already been stolen away, as, above you, there was an unearthly, primordial, terrifying howl that you felt the effects of down into your bones, like the deep booming of a tyrannosaur in the dark. It was haunting and awesome, like the witness of an angel converted to sound.

And the excitement and pleasure of making him cum like this, mixed with the sheer, beautiful horror of his impassioned cries prickling your skin, gave you a high like no other. No rollercoaster, no Halloween attraction, had ever given you such a nigh-orgasmic, potent blend of fright and delight.

And pride, somewhere, deep inside you. You didn't even care about the mess he was making of you. All that mattered was the fact that you had made him do so, that you alone had this power over him.

It was all utterly intoxicating.

He wheezed, gulped, and panted, head pressed against the wall, eyes still shut tight, as he came down. The unexpectedly earth-shattering climax was finally at an end. And gods - if this is what merely fucking your hands felt like, what was inside you like? He trembled a little harder, a soft, breathy moan leaving his lips.

As if in response, a quiet, squeaking gasp came from beneath him.

"Holy shit…"

The sound of your quivering whisper roughly slammed sobriety and clarity back into his head. His eyes popped open and he looked down in a panic, with trepidation. He knew he had possibly revealed too much of himself, with the roar that had so ruthlessly ripped from his throat.

A cold spike of anxiety chilled his blood when he was met with you shaking so hard, like a frail leaf barely clinging to a twig in autumn. You were staring up at him with wide eyes, knees bending as you struggled to stay standing, and there was undoubtable fear in your scent.

But also excitement.

He felt a small amount of relief. The scent of your arousal was still fresh; pheromones still wafting off of you like a simmering heat. He dared reach down, cupping your cheek, and was fully soothed by how easily you nuzzled into his hand.

Perhaps… you like being scared...?

No, he dare not assume. He must act with a measure of... cautiousness.

"I… I'm sorry, my love. I didn't mean to frighten--"

"Make that noise again," you interrupted, the words tumbling from your mouth, hasty and hoarse.

Pierrot halted, fully taken aback. He wasn't quite sure how to respond to such a startling demand.

"I-I mean," you stammered, your face blushing bright. "I, um… I want to… to… ah, oh no…" You looked away, trying to hide your face in his hand, completely flustered and waving a hand in your defense.

Adorable.

"I just… really, really want to… um, make you make that noise. Again, a-and again. A lot, actually." Your voice was ever-dwindling and cracking from your embarrassment. You were a nervous babbler. It was one of your endearing qualities. You were so adorable. What a coincidence, considering you often called him adorable... Of course, right now, this moment, covered in spaff like this, had increased your allure considerably. And although you will wash yourself, he knew his heady scent would cling to you for days, undetectable by you and your fellow humans, but bright as fluorescent paint to that Harlequin.

He felt his heart swell at the thought... as well as more carnal parts of him.

He gently pulled your face to look to him again, and though his muscles protested, he lowered himself to you, gifting you a heated kiss.

"Anything, yes," he said breathlessly as you whimpered and suckled on his crazy-long tongue. "Ruin me, break me. As many times as you want, dearest! Please!"

General: What if the child of the Ringmaster MC was reincarnated into the Present!MC?

≫ I imagine it’d be pretty neat if the Present!MC initially has no memories of their past life, though there are still vague impressions of their (your) past existence. Same face, same name, same good-natured curiosity and desire to help.

≫ But there are other flickers of the past in this new life, coincidences that are later realized to be echoes of that life all along…

————

≫ You had frequent childhood dreams of bright-eyed monsters, scrawled crayon and marker drawings of dark horned figures that filled your drawers, an inherent interest in all things morbid, mystical, and macabre…

≫ You even had claims of having imaginary friends in your youth, shadowy creatures that appear in your dreams. They hate being in their cages, you’d tell your parents. They’re very hungry all the time. They don’t like talking for too long. They’re very tired and not very good at walking.

≫ You even used to kneel down in your bedroom as though you were actually talking to these nonexistent friends, exchanging words and phrases that a young child wouldn’t normally understand. You’d brush a hand on your neck as though tending to a wound that wasn’t there.

≫ It got to the point where your father got concerned that you wouldn’t be able to make any normal friends, or that your habits were a sign of possession. You seemed rather convinced that your imaginary companions were actually real. And you had very…unconventional interests, to say the least.

≫ But eventually, those strange habits and quirks faded away as you got older, and you interacted with others quite normally, all things considered. Outside of those odd habits (something your mother attributed to all kids being weird in their own ways), you had an uneventful childhood.

≫ And like all children, you grew up. Fledged the nest. Went off to establish your own life somewhere else with nothing but your own determination and your parents’ support.

≫ You still had a fascination with all things spooky and morbid. You listened to podcasts about unsolved crimes, garnered all sorts of “weird” paraphernalia of your interests, read books and watched documentaries about mysteries both felonious and paranormal. You didn’t believe in half the ghost stuff you consumed, but it was interesting nonetheless.

≫ You got a job working as a barista in a coffee shop. Carol, your coworker, even shared a couple of your interests! And your boss is a pretty nice guy. Your life was simple, if not a little uneventful. (A blessing, really. But it's human nature to silently long for what you shouldn't have, isn't it?)

≫ One day, though, you notice that there’s a sort of small festival or fair set up in a public park area. Tents are seemingly set up overnight, and there's no shortage of gossip about the new events going on. After a day or so, flyers start to show up everywhere—plastered on the sides of buildings, stapled to telephone poles, handed out to just about anyone who spares the tall performers a glance.

≫ It was inevitable that you'd learn what exactly had come to the city. A circus of horrors, one that supposedly wasn’t for kids or families. It was admittedly quite interesting, as this circus advertised against what most other circuses and fairs marketed themselves towards.

≫ But other people seemed to have an issue with that, evidenced by the way someone had attacked one of the circus workers after only a few days of them being in town. You were walking to work when you saw it: a man beating a jester clad in red to the ground. The small crowd that had formed didn't seem exactly keen on helping him.

≫ Naturally, the sight alone fuels you to instantly go against your better instincts to mind your own business, and you intervene. You position yourself between the altercation, refusing to back down. The man eventually walks off, and you help the clown up while offering a bandage.

≫ But once you actually got a good look at him…you got a really weird case of Déjà vu. You knew you hadn’t seen him before. It would be pretty hard to forget a really tall bright crimson-wearing jester guy with white hair and a mask.

≫ But it was undeniable. His golden eyes…they seemed so familiar. It was almost unsettling.

≫ You snap yourself out of your daze, internally scolding yourself for rudely staring—nearly gawking—only to realize the red-clad clown was doing the same. Did he also feel that strange familiarity? It’s not like you can just ask him, that would be really weird…

≫ Brushing off that lingering feeling, you politely bid the clown farewell before making your way to work. You try to forget that encounter, those golden eyes paired with that ashen hair. Such a distinct combination, such a distinct-looking person overall, there was no way you’d seen him before.

≫ Oh well. It was just a brief interaction, and you likely wouldn’t see him again. Better to just move on from that strange encounter.

≫ But of course, fate has different plans.

≫ You end up meeting the red clown once more, and he introduces himself and even gives you a red ticket to the circus! How kind of him. It's like he knew you were drawn to creepy and eerie things. The tickets to the circus were so expensive (likely to discourage families from attending) and you had resigned yourself to unfortunately missing out on the unique experience.

≫ But this gesture was your once in a lifetime chance to attend the performances, and you wouldn't dare question it now. (Even though you really should be questioning certain things at this point like your coworker's absence and why Pierrot seemed so uncannily familiar)

≫ Ah. It seems nobody thought to quell your naivety and ravenous curiosity in this life either. But can anyone really blame you?

≫ You're excited to learn about this circus of horrors. It was so unconventional, so interesting. You clutched both your ticket and the red paper flower the Pierrot (you ask yourself why he wears jester-like attire if his role is that of a Pierrot's) had gifted to you as a token of appreciation for aiding him earlier that day.

≫ The two of you actually have a lovely conversation about things deemed unseen or morbid, about how fear reveals a lot about people. Some people vehemently try to reject and suppress their fears, others are haunted and hollowed by them. And some don't even realize their fears until its too late.

≫ You were sure you could have spoken to the Pierrot for much longer, but it was past closing time. After confirming that you would attend his show, you bid him farewell and go back home to your apartment. However, once inside the threshold, you slump against the door.

≫ The amount of nostalgia and familiarity you felt while speaking to that red clown was almost nauseating. There was a sinking dread in your heart that infested your lungs. It made you feel short of breath, like you were constantly on edge despite the fact that he didn't pose any threat. He worked at a circus of horrors, but he was rather nice. Weird and perhaps a little creepy at times, sure, but he wasn't intimidating.

≫ ...Not that intimidating, anyway.

≫ You try not to think about it too much, but it proves to be a daunting task. It's like something is hiding right beneath your nose, some sort of vital yet elusive detail that won't make itself known.

≫ That night, you have dreams like the ones from your childhood that you had nearly forgotten. Hushed voices and unnaturally colored eyes and sharp teeth glinting from nonexistent light. You looked down at your hands and saw blood and rust and the veins in your fingers turned sickly black. You awoke in a cold sweat, unsettled and nostalgic for all the wrong reasons...and late for work.

≫ The day mostly goes by normally, and you meet the one called the Harlequin on your way to work. He was far more...talkative than his fellow performer. He tries to trade your red ticket for his green one, but you're not even given a chance to consider the thought before Pierrot shows up, golden eyes slitted in a way that made your heart sink to your stomach.

≫ That sight remains in your head longer than it should. Kind and large eyes turned malicious, almost animalistic, it was a very jarring and unsettling change in behavior for Pierrot. Granted, you didn't know him that well, but for some reason it felt as though you had known him for ages.

≫ You try to brush it off. It's just an act between the two. Isn't it?

≫ That dread and sense of foreboding doesn't disappear, especially after learning that Carol was now missing. Some of the excitement you felt about visiting the circus is somewhat dampened by the undeniable tension that had formed in the city ever since it arrived. You don't entirely know what to think.

≫ But you had made a promise to use the red ticket. Pierrot had lightly grabbed your arm earlier—for some reason you braced for him to place his black-gloved hand against your mouth—and eerily asked you to promise him that you'd use it. What else could you do but agree?

≫ The Harlequin had also entered your workplace, and it was noticeably odd how much you were seeing these guys in the matter of just barely a couple days. But strangely enough, it feels natural. Even stranger, it feels deeply unsettling at the same time.

≫ When night comes and you make your way to the circus threshold, the man in the blue suit elicits yet another involuntary sense of recognition. It was getting a little ridiculous now, how all of the circus workers seemed to be the cause of such sensations. But what is even stranger is the way you notice the black and white-masked man freeze for just a split second upon moving to greet you and take your ticket.

≫ But the moment is gone as soon as it came. He recovers from his pause effortlessly, wishing you a good experience in the circus after punching your ticket. You thank him while avoiding eye contact. The ticket in your hands now seems less like an invitation and more like an indictment. Just what had you gotten yourself into?

≫ You remain slightly on-edge as you make your way to the green tent, where the Harlequin tells a strange story using puppets made of paper. The figures are all silhouettes, obscured and simplified forms whose names don't matter, only the roles they play.

≫ The green clown weaves a story of monsters, men, and angels. Suffering and insatiable hunger and desperation. Your eyes remain fixed on the paper puppets, thoroughly invested in the story. But then the angels just...disappear. Vanished into the moonless night with the wind.

≫ Chills creep up your spine every time your eyes land on the stitch-like markings on the backs of the Angels. One was a monster, the other a human. How could either of them be angels sent from above?

≫ There's something off about the story. Something missing. You're not sure what that missing piece is, but you feel it deep in your gut in a way that's hard to explain. You know that you've never heard such a story before. Yet still there's that sense of familiarity, of some distant and tiny connection to it.

≫ You can't even entirely pay attention to the Harlequin trying to make advances on you after the show just because of the overwhelming feeling that you had heard a voice like his before. Sly and almost serpentine...

≫ After the green tent was the red tent, and you watch from the front row as Pierrot dances beneath a spotlight in a way that made you deeply unsettled. His pale ashen hair swayed with his movements, tiny bells on his costume ringing like death knells. The lights above him didn't hide his golden gaze...instead they only exaggerated it.

≫ For some reason you expected Pierrot to have a saddened or pained expression on his face as the show went on. Instead the expression on his white mask gradually turned more and more sinister, a sharp smile growing wider as he danced with his own shadow. It made a pit form in your stomach.

≫ And then he started throwing those knives at that stage assistant. The crack of the blades hitting and slightly splintering the wooden board the woman was strapped to made you flinch back slightly. They got close. And then closer. And then even closer. And just when you thought he was finished with a third knife...

≫ A fourth one went straight for her head, splitting it open.

≫ You ran out of the tent after that, your lungs aching for air and your head buzzing with too many thoughts and attempts at rationalization. You were into morbid and creepy things, sure, but even that was too much for you. How did those other people in the crowd not panic like you did?

≫ It feels like the entire world is in on some giant joke, like everyone in the world got a script to follow except you. But that obviously couldn't have been a real person who got a knife to her head...just some insanely good practical effects, right?

≫ Pierrot came up to you after that, leaning next to your ear and asking how you liked his show. Obviously you told him that it was very realistic, so much so that it gave you chills. He looks happy to hear that, but you can only internally wince.

≫ And then he asks if you want to stay at the circus and see more of it, if you want to join him and learn more about the performances. A terribly tempting offer. But you were almost feeling nauseous from what you had seen in his performance, and all the strange familiarity of this circus was starting to make your head hurt.

≫ (It doesn’t matter what choices you made. Eating drugged circus food, being kidnapped by Pierrot, going home safely and dreaming further of rusted cages and paper-thin lamenting voices…Nobody gets to choose their fates, only how fast they reach them.)

≫ It all ends with you being even more confused by the circus members. You catch glimpses of what lies behind their masks, the truth of their nature. For some strange reason, the implication of inhuman beasts existing isn't what frightens you. What unsettles you is the fact that it feels so normal, like it was expected to happen. Like you had encountered this all before.

≫ But then you run into one of the performers in pink, and her mask falls off. You have to resist the urge to puke when you see your missing coworker standing like a doll, eyes clouded with a purple haze. Carol. She's here, alive...but is she really?

≫ You don't realize you’re back in your apartment until you’re standing right next to your bed. It was all just a daze of shock and paralysis ever since seeing Carol like that. You don’t even realize you’re holding a red ticket until you drop it to the ground like it was contaminated with something.

≫ And then you hear Pierrot’s voice. It’s distant and muffled, like…

≫ You freeze upon seeing his golden eyes looming over you. That gilded gaze was once looking over you like this in darkness while your vision was fading, telling you to sleep with a hushed and rasping voice, digging black claws into the sides of your head. Those eyes were the only thing you saw as your vision warped and swayed-

≫ You don't even realize Pierrot was calling your name with a concerned expression until you suddenly snap out of that daze with a sharp gasp.

≫ He backs away, worried that he had hurt or frightened you. You don’t know what to say. But you eventually tell him that you’re afraid. So much has happened in just two days, you’ve seen things you can’t unsee, learned things you can’t unlearn.

≫ He tries to reassure you, but you don’t have the heart to tell him that you knew things that you couldn’t. About the circus. About him and the Harlequin. About the repeated instances of Déjà vu and familiarity that ate away at your mind the longer you tried to ignore it.

≫ But there’s only one option left if you want to make it to tomorrow alive and sane. You have to go back to the circus.

≫ And so you do. What else can you do but see if the other circus members also resembled the shadows in your dreams? Even now you denied the resemblance of Pierrot and Harlequin to the golden and green-eyed ones in your subconscious.

≫ The first place you visit in the circus is the blue tent. You see the same shadows that had always existed in your dreams, hear voices that had once only been heard in your childhood when you played with imaginary friends.

≫ You chalked most of it up to the nature of the performance and the overarching narrative the circus seemed to have—a narrative that you seemed to know so very well—until you encountered the cracked mirror just near the exit.

≫ There, in the glass, was your reflection. But not really. You were wearing unfamiliar non-modern clothes. Though there was a large crack over where your eyes would be, you still recognized the figure as being you. There was a wet red splotch on the front of your clothing that only seemed to bloom the longer you stared.

≫ You blinked once, and you gasped. There was now a blazing fire behind your reflection, a gaping wound just beneath your chest that exposed your ribcage and entrails. The reflection didn’t show the shocked expression you knew you had plastered on your face. Incoherent whispers filled your ears.

≫ The stench of bitter smoke and burning wood made your face twitch in disgust, and you turned away from the cracked glass. It was just too much.

≫ And towards the end, just when you thought you had gotten through the worst of it…

≫ “Come closer.”

≫ A set of pink eyes meet your own. You take a few steps towards that mirror towards the end of the maze…

≫ And you’re dragged into the mirror at the end of the hall by dark hands.

≫ What you witness is nothing short of horrific. Shadows of beasts and whispers in hoarse voices and a death so gruesome and utterly undeserved it makes you nauseous.

≫ And then you’re suddenly seeing through someone else’s eyes, no longer an onlooker but a participant in this disturbing tale. You can’t look away. You can’t ignore the screams of pain and the inhuman wails and cries. It’s all just so overwhelming.

≫ When it’s finally over, the pink-eyed reflection in the mirror looks almost…hopeful. A jarring sight compared to the macabre story you just witnessed. She thanks you for hearing her story. But her voice is laced with familiarity and fondness that you felt you hadn’t earned. You don’t know her…do you?

≫ You don’t get time to process it before you are within the Cyan tent, then the Purple tent. You barely manage to shamble through both of them—while getting nearly sick with nostalgia from meeting the Doctor and the Jester—before someone holds you from behind as you try to leave.

≫ It makes you remember things that hadn’t happened to you. Strong arms holding you from behind while someone else pricked something into your neck, a warm wetness traveling down your collarbone while a stinging burn is seeping into your veins-

≫ You nearly yelp, only to realize it was Pierrot who was behind you. He tells you that he loves you for who you are, that he can’t bring himself to let you go for even a moment. You can’t and don’t believe him.

≫ And then you’re on your own to walk home, back to your apartment. What choice do you have but to trudge home in a daze, trying your best to ignore the fact that you feel new sets of eyes watching your every move?

≫ Nothing feels real. Everything feels like you walked into a darkness that nobody returns from. It still feels like you’re on a stage with an invisible audience watching and judging your every move, waiting for you to mess up some unknown script so they can devour you whole.

≫ You can’t sleep after that. Can’t think, can’t even breathe properly. It feels like you’re going insane.

≫ The next day arrives, and you call in sick for work. Your boss sounds concerned but you tell him that you’d stay home and stay safe. You can’t bring yourself to leave your apartment, but you also can’t sleep, too restless and trying to digest all that you had learned and ignored and didn’t want to know.

≫ It feels like you’ve known the circus members your whole life. But you’ve known them only for a couple of days at most. What’s happening to you? Why is your mind betraying you? Why can’t you think or sleep or just ignore what’s happening?

≫ So with your sleeplessness you start to rack your brain for clues. You do some research on any circuses that had made their way through your home. Flip through a couple unfinished journals you had filled with drawings and paragraphs of especially vivid dreams over the years.

≫ You deny it. You deny everything. That reflection, all the dreams you’ve had over the years…they can’t be yours. Surely you’ve been experiencing someone else’s life through their eyes?

≫ You end up slowly passing out on your bathroom floor, completely overwhelmed with all that was consuming your mind. Turns out having an existential crisis, depersonalization episode, and panic attack all at the same time isn’t very healthy.

≫ Deep in your subconscious, you can’t hide from your innermost thoughts and fears. If anything, they’re multiplied. You dream of flickering flames and gnashing teeth. Brittle claws and rusting metal and pointed eyes always in the same colors.

≫ Golden yellow. Deep purple. Venom green. Cyan turned blood red. Blue and white. Pale pink.

≫ And then you look down to your hands, your clothes. Unfamiliar patterns, yet somehow you still recognize them as yours. The veins in your wrists turned an unnatural color from something that had should not be alongside your blood.

≫ Poison.

≫ And then you look back in front of you, seeing that someone was now standing there. It was…you. But it wasn’t. But it was.

≫ Same face, but with a sad and restless expression. Same eyes, but without any light like a living person. The person looks into your eyes with their dead ones. Red begins to seep through their clothing, but they don’t move. Four points along their neck begin to bead up with blood, and it trickles down their collarbone. They still don’t move, don’t even react to the injuries.

≫ Your shoulder starts to sting, right over where you knew you had four tiny little dot-shaped birthmarks. The back of your throat begins to tighten like you had swallowed something sharp and hot.

≫ This was you. This person was you, and you are this person. Memories of love, hate, suffering, loss, yearning. A wish never granted. A curiosity towards things that lingered in the dark. Fear of God, of the ones you loved rejecting and forgetting and denying you simply for not being perfect.

≫ You wake up on your bathroom floor, stomach churning and eyes stinging. You then proceed to vomit your guts up into your toilet, moaning in pain and trembling from head to toe. It was a very lucky thing that today was yet another day off from work.

≫ Not really. Instead of possibly being distracted by your daily tasks at your job, you’re left leaning against your bathroom door to retain some sense of control over your situation.

≫ You can’t face anyone today. Not even yourself. Especially not Pierrot or Harlequin or any of the other circus performers.

≫ There’s so much dissonance between the ones you know now and what you knew then. Too much of a difference between the monsters in your dreams and in the circus. They killed you. Ate you. Yet the golden and green-eyed beasts hold your hands in theirs and claim to your face that they wish to keep you safe.

≫ Did they already know the truth? Were they just stringing you along to try and devour you once again? Was this all some cruel rigged game? And if they didn’t know…how long until they did? What would they do, what would they say? What should you do?

≫ How early into your life was it too late for you?

≫ A sob escapes your throat at the idea of being doomed from the start. You just...can't think. It’s too much.

≫ You just stay there, sitting on your bathroom floor and breathing too hard to be healthy. It feels like the only safe space in the entire world from hungry inhuman eyes. Your fingers tremble and your head hurts. Bile bubbles at the back of your throat and coats the end of your tongue.

≫ Fear plagues your mind. Yet there’s also an ache in your heart that comes from some stinging sense of betrayal. And betrayal only comes from those dear to you.

≫ Yes. You had found yourself endeared to Pierrot in such a short amount of time. You liked him, enjoyed his endearing personality and his devotion. And you were effortlessly intrigued by the Harlequin, aching to know more about him and his true nature.

≫ You found yourself endeared to the entire circus as a whole, in truth. Even despite your fear. How much of these feelings were leftover from your past life, how much was from your own heart here and now?

≫ God, what’s gotten into you?

≫ You don’t know. You don’t know whether to consider that past existence yourself or someone else. You saw through their eyes, felt their pain, shed their tears. Lived their…your life in that god awful prison disguised as a circus. That death was yours.

≫ Those dreams you now realized were memories, those experiences, that life…all of those were yours. Weren’t they? The fondness and fear, those feelings of wonder and terror.

≫ But every cell in your body is fighting against your soul. You don’t know which side of yourself to listen to, that aching hunger to know the truth…or the terror of being dragged down into a darkness deep as hell where no one is supposed to go.

≫ But eventually, you ran out of things to cry about on your bathroom floor. At some point, you have to dust yourself off and face the facts. (Which is much, much easier said than done, by the way)

≫ With aching and shaky legs you force yourself to stand up, hands gripping your sink like it were a lifeline.

≫ You don’t want to meet the gaze of the person in the mirror. Who is that?

≫ A naive and stupid human who thought they were a normal person until yesterday, that’s who. No, that’s not even the whole truth. You always knew there was something going on beneath the surface of the circus. You just tried to ignore it and brush it off as something else.

≫ Pull yourself together, will you? There’s still something important that you have yet to consider in all of this.

≫ As far as you know, you have two main choices.

≫ Either face those beasts once more and almost certainly end up killed…or try to run as fast and as far away as possible to live the rest of your life until the inevitable arrives.

…

≫ No. No, that can’t be it. You can’t just give up when you haven’t even tried. That was then. This is now. Your life…This is somewhere. This is something. This may be all you have, but it’s still something. Your home of crowded streets and working in a coffee shop for minimal pay. The sky above, the world below.

≫ You’re still here. You’re still alive. Things are different now. They have to be.

≫ This was a chance. A chance to do something different. A work of fate to do something better than what had happened so long ago. You turn on your sink faucet and splash your face with cupped palmfuls of water, grounding yourself in the present as best you can.

≫ Right now, there’s something you must do. Something you should have done a very long time ago.

≫ You need to get some answers. If not for yourself or your previous life who died afraid and undeserving…then for the one they call Columbina. The one you once called the Lamb. Your friend.

Circus Member Reactions:

Pierrot:

≫ I feel like Pierrot, despite being the first to encounter the MC, would be the last to fully realize and accept that the MC is, in fact, the same kind human who helped them all those years ago, reborn into new flesh but with the same soul. Or at least fragments of it.

≫ He attributes the feelings of familiarity and nostalgia to simply being a form of his lovesickness. Clearly it must mean that you and him were destined to be together, right? Surely it was just coincidence that you looked and sounded exactly like that human from before. Humans all tended to blur together over the years. Surely this was just another case of that.

≫ But one thing he can’t deny is your scent.

≫ It’s less about the physical attributes of your scent and more about the impressions and memories that spark as a result of them. You smell of coffee grounds, steamed milk, and other subtle things that become sinfully alluring. But strangely, those qualities elicit an odd reaction in his mind. Impressions of the one before…

≫ The human in the past smelled differently, like fresh linens and cotton…and blood. But one distinct note is shared between you and that other human whose name he and the others never learned. The subtle smell of dust. Dry and earthen and delicate. Easily missed, but not easily forgotten by one such as him.

≫ It's hidden, elusive. But it's there. As he continues to interact with you and learn more about you, it's nearly suffocating. But he ignores it. Or at the very least, he poorly attempts to. If he acknowledges it, then that could mean the others would find out. And what scares him the most is the fact that he doesn't entirely know what the others would do with you, do to you.

≫ But it all comes to a head after you went back to your apartment, and you hadn't been the same since. You were much quieter, tenser. You had the telltale signs of having learned something you couldn't unlearn. But what?

≫ If it had anything to do with the circus, then you were in great danger. A sharp pang of fear spears through Pierrot's heart at the mere thought of you being in any kind of danger, let alone danger from his own fellow circus members. He has to protect you. He has to. He has to talk to you, to know what it is that you've learned.

≫ When you encounter him once more, there's a strange awareness in your eyes that seems all too familiar. You don't say anything for a moment before you slowly ask him if he had ever worked in a circus before the current circus of horrors. He's slightly caught off-guard before admitting that yes, he did.

≫ But then you ask him if he had known any humans in that old circus. He's confused, but you don't let it go. You ask him if he knew about what you had been feeling these past few days. If he remembered as much as you did.

≫ "I...I don't know what you're talking about, MC."

≫ He very much does know what you are talking about. But he never wants to think of such things. Can't you two just ignore it? Can't he just remain as your admirer, your loyal inamorato, your Pierrot? He doesn't want to remember his time as some sorrowful creature rotting in a corroded cage.

≫ But apparently, you do.

≫ "You held me from behind. You told me to sleep. Your voice was the last one I heard."

≫ He presses his palm to your mouth before you can get another word out. It isn't voluntary, his body moved on its own before his mind could even begin to fully comprehend what it is you said. But then he retracts his hand as though the contact burned him...or you.

≫ "I..."

≫ It’s not possible. But the words that came from your mouth were true. And there was no way for you to know such things unless you were there with them on that night. None of the other troupe members had spoken a word of what had happened.

≫ It's not possible. Yet here you are.

≫ When he finally comes face to face with the undeniable truth…he’s terrified. So terrified that he doesn’t know what to say or do or even think.

≫ If you have the memories of the one before…then you know what he is. What he’s done. You being truly afraid of him is one of his deepest fears. What if you flinch away from him? What if you try to run? What if he can’t stop himself from tracking, pursuing, hunting?

≫…What if you hate him for what had happened in the past?

≫ And yet, despite his fears and dread, he still can’t leave you. There isn’t a single bone in his body that would let him do that. But he’d be lying to himself if he claimed that he was completely alright with this new revelation. He's just...frozen.

≫ Fear, guilt, sorrow, shame…these all swim through his head and make him lightheaded. You knew he was a monster. Your eyes reflected sorrow, pain, and a knowing pity. For him or for yourself, he can’t tell. It makes his heart and mind hurt even worse than if you were afraid.

≫ But eventually, those thoughts form one single cohesive desire.

≫ He needs to protect you. But how? He can’t just…stay away from you. He can’t do it. He won’t. It’s selfish, this he knows. Terribly selfish and foolish and bound to end terribly in more ways than one. But Pierrot can’t bring himself to leave you be.

≫ If the others find out...

≫ They might try to stake their claim on you. They might try to hurt you. They might devour you whole because they had long convinced themselves that it was all they were meant to do with humans and the ones they cared for.

≫ He can't let that happen. He can't lose you. He refuses to let you go.

≫ Both of you need time to process. But he doesn't want to leave you on your own. So the two of you just sit near each other, not exactly embracing or speaking, but trying to hold in all the information and your emotions. He doesn’t admit it outright, but you know that he knows.

≫ He's afraid to hold you, touch you, be anywhere near you. He can still remember the scent of linen and cotton and dust, the smell of death, the stench of iron. He held you still while the others, they...

≫ And then he...

≫ It's going to take a while for this all to really sink in. Even longer for him to come to terms with it all. But he won't leave you. Not even with his pain and tears. He loved you, lost you, consumed you once. But now there was a second chance. A second chance that he knows he doesn't deserve. But he'll use it anyway.

≫ You thought he was bad before? Good luck having any degree of freedom from him in some form. (You're gonna need it. Like REALLY need it.) The only reason he doesn't outright kidnap you is because the others would have easier access to you.

≫ He knows better than anyone that the others aren't mindless bloodthirsty animals, but he still can't help but want to protect you from them. Who knows what their reactions would be like once they inevitably find out the truth? Will they seek to repeat the past? Will they want to make an example of you?

≫ What's likelier is that they already know the truth, just as Pierrot knew it (and ignored it) from the start. It's simply a matter of time until they actually face it and accept it.

≫ Until that time comes, though, Pierrot will cling to you impossibly tighter. But can you really blame him? I'm sure if you asked for some distance to process your memories on your own, he'd give you whatever you needed. But he'd be waiting.

≫ He's tied with Harlequin to be the one who wants to talk about those old memories the least. He just wants to love and protect you here and now from anyone or anything that would threaten you. Why linger in the past if there was nothing left for you there?

≫ But there is something left there. And it will take a lot of time and effort to finally acknowledge the wounds still bleeding on his heart.

≫ In the end, Pierrot is actually one of the ones who accepts the MC being a reincarnation the easiest. Not the fastest or the happiest about it…but simply the easiest. Mostly because he doesn’t ask very many questions when it comes to fate. You were here. You showed him genuine kindness. There exists a second chance. That’s all that matters.

≫ It’s no surprise that he would want to keep you close to him forever, take you from the cruel and cold world and keep you safe in the circus.

Harlequin:

≫ Harlequin, on the other hand, instantly notices the uncanny familiarity, the way you’re drawn to the circus like a moth to a flame. He initially thinks it to be your curiosity about things that best remain in the dark. That curiosity will be the death of you, this he can feel. (If only he knew it had already been the death of you once before)

≫ But as he gets closer to you, there’s an undeniable sense of nostalgia. It becomes harder to deny the fact that he's just as drawn to you as you are to the circus.

≫ It isn't until you visit the green tent and watch his show that he starts to become slightly intrigued outside of wanting to take you from Pierrot. He notices the way you watch his paper puppet story intently, the way your eyes remain fixed on the simple silhouettes meant to portray the monsters and humans.

≫ You ask about his show. About the little Angels sent from above. About what happened to them. This piques his interest in you even further. What was it that made you so drawn to the circus, to the story of suffering woven and ingrained within its very foundations, to him?

≫ Well, if you were so insistent on learning more, on being near things like him and the others…why not give you something to remember?

≫ That’s what prompts him to enter your apartment after that foolish Pierrot had finally left your side. Oddly, the red-clad clown seemed…disturbed. Unsettled. Harlequin thinks nothing of it.

≫ Pierrot was laughably sensitive to every word you shared with him, every little thing you did to him. It was likely nothing of note that affected him so deeply. Now was the Harlequin’s chance to steal you away from him, just as he had done with the Angel before.

≫ But when he enters your apartment from your balcony door the way he had before, something is off. You’re less responsive, seemingly distracted by something. It’s not nearly as fun if you’re not entirely focused on him.

≫ So he probes at your mind, questions what has you so distracted from someone like him. Surely it couldn’t be that red fool, he sneers with barely contained disgust. But still you don’t say anything. You barely even look at him.

≫ But when you do, Harlequin regrets ever going into your apartment.

≫ “You poisoned them. The Angels. You poisoned me. Right here.”

≫ You press the fingers on one hand to the side of your neck, to the spot where a strange birthmark was. Four subtle little dots along your neck and shoulder. The exact spots where his claws had once pricked a certain human with his strongest poison. He feels his practiced smile shrink and tighten.

≫ But he doesn't let himself be caught off-guard for long. You're good at getting his walls down...but not good enough. He's back to his outward persona in a matter of moments.

≫ “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I don’t think you do either, MC.”

≫ It’s one of the only times he uses your actual name. A hidden warning. Don't keep doing this, he silently tells you. Don't speak of things you don't fully understand. He was just starting to like you, too. It would be a shame to have to cut this all off-

≫ "You didn't want it to hurt."

≫ That makes his entire body halt. His heart skipped too many beats, his lungs surged as though he had been stabbed. The blood beneath his skin had turned to ice. There was no way you could have known such a thing. Yet here you were, spouting words that he desperately wanted to pretend he didn't know the meanings to.

≫ But even still, he doesn't break. He had broken once, but never again. His eyes narrowed at your words that stung like accusations.

≫ "You don't know that. You don't know anything about that story. I think it would be wise for you to choose your words carefully."

≫ But to his surprise, you don't have any other words. You simply step closer to him and wrap your arms around his torso, embracing him in a way that made him want to puke.

≫ His arms awkwardly move away from the gesture, a guttural and visceral hiss coming from deep within his chest, but you don't let go. Instead a small wet spot starts to form on his costume where your face is buried. Tears. You were crying.

≫ Harlequin's own eyes begin to ever-so-slightly sting behind his mask, but he ignores it. Instead his claws instinctively sharpen at his immense discomfort and nearly sink into your flesh, but that instinct is quickly quelled. Mostly.

≫ He continues to hiss, to warn against your foolishness, to spit barbed yet shallow words to get any kind of reaction out of you, but you still don't say anything. You just keep holding onto him like you had any idea what you were doing to a loathsome monster like him.

≫ Foolish. Only an idiot would show such nauseating displays of affection towards someone like him if they knew what he'd done.

≫ ...But in that sense, maybe you really are that callow human from before reborn anew. Rebirthed in new flesh to haunt him and the others in a new cruel way. As if the circus itself wasn't haunted enough.

≫ He doesn't regret what he did, he tells himself. It was the only way. What was done was done. That story was finished. So why would you come back? It just doesn’t make any sense.

≫ How dare you. How dare you return to them now after all this time? What could you want from them? Your existence can’t mean anything good for the circus or its members.

≫ Harlequin keeps his distance from you after that. He can't handle the idea of you, the idea that the past had taken on a form of flesh to loom over him and remind him of everything he had done. He avoids you like the plague.

≫ It will take a tremendous amount of time and patience on your end for him to even consider the idea of facing what he and the others had done in the past. And he’ll try his hardest to make you want to avoid him just as much. He’s willing to make you scared, angry, sorrowful. Anything to keep you away.

≫ But of course, his sharp words did not work on you back then in the old circus. You still came back, night after night, offering sustenance and warmth and companionship, however pathetic and meager your attempts were. Why would he expect thorns and barbs and pointed edges to work now?

≫ Because it’s all he knows. It’s all he’s ever known. And it’s all he ever will know.

≫ (That’s what he had told himself long ago, and he forced himself to think that he accepted that. But you challenged that before, and now you challenge that once again.)

≫ Harlequin wants to be rid of you once more. To get rid of his loathing longing for a way to atone for what he had done. But he cannot change. Nobody can.

≫ He is still a monster. You are still a fool. This story can only have one ending. Fools are eaten by monsters for their crimes of curiosity and ignorance. That’s how the stories go. Those are the roles that had been cast for you, for him, for every human and beast that dared to cross paths.

≫ However, deep in his blackened and caged heart, there was a flickering glimmer of hope that refused to die once and for all. And it only got worse when he had met you, when you dared to show kindness to a beast like him.

≫ But that all means nothing. Try as he might, this was not one of his paper doll tales. He was not the one in control here. And he wants so desperately to be able to tell this story without having to be a part of it. To distance himself from the truth.

≫ Even the most ambitious of vipers know when to abandon prey, when to loosen their coiling grip and hinge their jaws once more. This prey was not poisoned, not pointed or sharp…

≫ But sweet. Sickeningly so. Like a carnivorous plant, unassuming and alluring to an insect…only to swallow them whole in moments, leaving nothing behind but a husk.

≫ That is what awaits him, he is convinced. After all, why wouldn’t you want to exact revenge for what was done to you? Blood repays blood. Why wouldn’t you hate him for what he had done?

≫ (Of course, he never makes any of his suffering known. If you try to acknowledge it, he’ll ignore it and you. If you try to force him to confront what must be said, he’ll laugh in your face. Lean even further into the persona he had cultivated over many years. Be patient. Silently leave your arms open and he will slowly walk towards them, step by step.)

Ticket Taker:

≫ The Ticket Taker is the one who first recognized the strange illusions of memory with you. He was simply using his human disguise to hand out pink tickets and only wished to stop and get a cup of coffee at the place where he scouted out his latest doll.

≫ When you come out and begin to take his order, he is immediately caught off-guard with that nostalgia. He doesn't let it show, obviously, but it's undeniable. You look like an ordinary human, unassuming and ultimately forgettable in the grand scheme of things.

≫ He needs to get to the bottom of this, he decides. And what better way to do that than give you a pink ticket?

≫ But of course, several things get in the way of you being completely at his mercy. (Whether or not you take the pink ticket from him in the shop doesn't matter in the slightest, as fate itself seems to have different plans for you outside of the pink tent.) That seems to be a recurring trait about you, always slipping through his fingers like water.

≫ But when you enter his tent for a second time, this time on your own and without anyone to protect you...he recognizes an opportunity. Your curiosity is insatiable, and it is all too easy to draw you further and further in his tent with visions and voices and brief tricks against your mind with his mirrors.

≫ See why in shadows we hide, he and his reflections whisper from within the glass, beckoning you closer and closer to a mirror that houses an obscured mirage of his true form within. He waits inside the reflection, waiting for the perfect moment to close in, to corner you, to render you completely helpless.

≫ He can tell that your mind is wildly beating against his lure like a bird ensnared in a trap. But even the most rabid and arrogant creatures can be broken in with the promise of something desired.

≫ You walk closer, unafraid when you should be, naive when you shouldn’t. The Ticket Taker slowly emerges from the mirror’s surface, the glass rippling when it shouldn’t be possible. One of his white-gloved hands reaches out, an invitation that served more as a trap.

≫ But just before his hand could touch yours, you drew back, seeming to realize or remember something. Your eyes shone in a way that felt much too familiar.

≫ “It's you. I know you. A long time ago, you...”

≫ Your eyes drift downward as if you were truly recalling a memory that couldn’t be yours. But before you can get a word out, the Ticket Taker speaks over whatever thoughts could be turning in that head of yours. (That head which had a face so very much like a human he once knew)

≫ “…You’re speaking nonsense, visitor. And I think it’s about time we drop this charade.”

≫ He fully steps out of the reflection in his mirror, though you don’t step away or flinch back. Not this time. How strange. Perhaps you thought that luck was still on your side.

≫ But your luck had run out, this the Ticket Taker was sure of. You held no red ticket, had no white-haired beast looming over your shoulder. Some indulgent and slightly sick part of him took pride in knowing that he would see that frail sense of security shattered.

≫ But then his heart stops when his gaze lands on something you take out from one of your pockets. A few matchsticks. Unassuming and irrelevant to all who would see them. All except for him…and you. It’s painfully silent for too long. But then you begin to speak again.

≫ “You told me-"

≫ "That's enough."

≫ His white-gloved hand moves to grab your shoulder, to get you out of this circus so you can't cause any further problems. Where exactly would he take you? Hell if he knows. He just needs you to go back with the other humans where you belong. (The thought of dragging you to the pink tent is tempting, but Pierrot would likely become a problem)

≫ But his hand never reaches your shoulder. It gets closer and closer, but you don't move away. Not even a flinch. Not even a fearful look on your face. It makes him freeze just before his fingers can reach to grasp your shoulder. That look in your eyes. That damned look in your eyes.

≫ It was just like...

≫ He pulls his hand back, moving to brace both of his arms behind his back to retain any modicum of professionalism and control over the situation.

≫ "I think it best you leave, visitor. Before you disrupt anything any further."

≫ Outwardly he looks composed and refined. But anyone with functioning eyesight would be able to detect that not even his half-faced mask with a constant smile would be able to hide his insurmountable stress. Anger? Sorrow? Fear? Not even he really knows what roils within him. He’s just…stressed.

≫ This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be left behind to rest like everything else in that godforsaken prison, supposed to be a distant memory. You were supposed to stay dead. That’s how the world worked. Humans died as a result of their own curiosity, and monsters feasted on them.

≫ But undeniably, here you stand in front of him once again. Alive. Naive. Intruding on a story that wasn’t supposed to account for you.

≫ You don’t move from where you stand for a second, and he feels his composure start to crack, his claws threatening to split the seams at the fingertips of his gloves. You’re disobedient and unbearably frustrating. So impossibly foolish and unknowing. Just like…

≫ Just like back then. Always coming back when he and the others warned against it. Every single time, without fail, you would show up from behind those curtains. Always with that damned look in your eyes that made it hard to refuse to answer your questions.

≫ He retreats into one of his mirrors upon involuntarily making the connection, never once taking his eyes off of yours. It’s the first time he actively avoids a glaring problem instead of moving to remedy it in some way.

≫ But what can he do to be rid of this outlier, this stubborn and irksome human? As easy as it would be to simply drag you to the pink tent and get rid of this problem at its source, to maybe keep you in his blue tent forevermore…he can’t. Not only because Pierrot would become irrational and unstable over you, but also because…

≫ He doesn’t let himself finish the thought.

≫ This is one of the only times the Ticket Taker has ever felt so powerless, so unknowing of what to do. The circus had encountered myriads of problems in countless forms, and it had endured every single one of them. Not always cleanly, and certainly not always proudly, but the troupe had withstood. He had withstood.

≫ But now there was one little exception, one little human who should have stayed in the past where they belonged. What will you try to do now? Will you wriggle your way into their lives like you had before, becoming yet another catalyst for insurmountable loss?

≫ That can’t happen again. Each of the circus members had worked too hard for too long and lost far too much just to have it all be rendered meaningless by a single human.

≫ Of all the circus members, the Ticket Taker is the most concerned and stressed with these circumstances. You had wandered into their darkness once before, learned the truth of their nature and paid the price for it. But what would you do now? Would you try to become some martyr? Would you attempt to bring an end to what they had tried to build?

≫ He doesn’t know, and he only gets more and more frustrated the longer he realizes he can’t entirely control what you do. He feels no different than when he was in that wretched cage, powerless and helpless. And he detests that more than anything else in the world.

≫ He loathes that. Loathes you. You and your godforsaken curiosity and influence over the circus and its members.

≫ (He does not. But it’s quite easy for him to convince himself that he does. He hates what you represent in his eyes—loose ends. Unresolved business. Unfinished work.)

≫ He wants you far, far away from the circus, from his kin, from him. You can only bring trouble. Unnecessary drama and risks that simply aren’t worth it. (It is, but he doesn't know that.)

≫ He wishes more than anything that he could nip this problem in the bud, but he can’t. The best he can do is hope that the others help him with this…anomaly. If he can’t kill you…then he’ll avoid you.

≫ Unless ordered by the Jester to do otherwise, it’s all the Ticket Taker can bring himself to do.

The Doctor:

≫ Like Harlequin, the Doctor instantly picks up on the strange impressions he gathers from you. He’s encountered countless types of humans before, but only once has he encountered one like you. So very curious about and drawn to the things that go bump in the night. So strangely unafraid of things you should dread with all your heart.

≫ Or perhaps you were afraid and dreading, and you simply hid it well. That was an equally intriguing possibility. After all, it was quite rare when anything escaped the Doctor's watchful gaze.

≫ After you entered his tent for the first time, he’s left with more questions than answers. Inconclusive results that make him want to split you open, examine and poke and prod at your mind, your heart, your nervous system, everything.

≫ Which parts of you would reveal what he wanted to know? Such a delicious and promising specimen, this human. Frightened by many things, but not for the reasons he initially expected.

≫ There’s something in your eyes that tells him there’s more behind your fear beyond shallow dread towards the unknown. In fact, it almost seems like there’s a knowing fear in your gaze.

≫ Interesting. Very, very interesting.

≫ He decides to perform a little test when he spots you finally making your way towards his cyan tent once again. A minor psychological assessment, he calls it. You look concerned and mildly nervous, but not outright afraid.

≫ When you’re strapped to the medical chair and left completely at his mercy, he doesn’t refrain from poking and prodding both figuratively and literally, trying to dig down into your psyche and see what makes you different.

≫ You’re oddly quiet…more so than any normal human being he had ever had in his examination process. You’re distracted. You’re unable to move in a strange and dark environment, and your mind is off somewhere else, clearly finding a more important priority to think about than your own survival.

≫ Clearly, a more intensive treatment is needed. A mild escalation.

≫ He injects just a small dose of a pink serum, one that will make you a little more…compliant. Just to ensure you don’t lie to him. It was rather important you remained truthful for this.

≫ When you’re good and drugged up, he then holds two items up for you to see. In one hand is a bandage, an item all other humans would have chosen. But in the other hand is an ancient-looking metal key spotted with rust. He asks you which one you’re more drawn to and why.

≫ You briefly look both items over before answering, movements sluggish and words ever-so-slightly slurred from the drug he administered.

≫ “The key. It’s…familiar."

≫ Your words make him still his actions. But he remains calm and level as he tilts his head at your choice, more intrigued than anything else.

≫ "You've never seen it before."

≫ "Yes I have, from..."

≫ You trail off, evidently quite tired from the serum in your system. An unfortunate side effect. The Doctor’s red-gloved hand finds its way beneath your chin, clawed fingertips tilting your head upwards to encourage you to wake up a little. He still needs answers.

≫ “From?”

≫ “…From before. From the circus. The old one. The Ringmaster, he…”

≫ You trail off again, struggling to keep your eyelids open, too tired to continue. You seem to relax in the chair you were strapped to, face leaning into the red glove that no doubt reeked of blood and death and medical sanitation substances.

≫ You, a human in a strange environment with no way to move, were trusting him with your life. You dared to allow yourself to be so vulnerable like this. Why? How? Why weren’t you more afraid? How was your nervous system not panicking and forcing you to stay awake?

≫ But most importantly, how the hell did you know the significance of the key?

≫ The Doctor knows you haven't seen such a thing before. He knows you would have no way of knowing about the old circus. He knows you wouldn’t have a single clue about him if you were an ordinary person.

≫ Well. Clearly, you are not an ordinary person. You knew about things you shouldn’t, made him and all the others feel some strange sense of nostalgia, and resembled someone from very long ago…

≫ This warrants further study. Further testing.

≫ He should cut you apart while you were asleep and oh-so enticingly vulnerable. He does not. Why, he can’t decide. Perhaps you had more of an effect on him and the others than he thought.

≫ That needs to be studied as well.

≫ He injects you with yet another serum, this one a mild stimulant to wake you up a little. This isn’t the time for a dissection or a vivisection. For now, he’ll let you walk away. There are too many questions he needs answers for from you, and you would be of much more use if you were alive.

≫ “Come now, sweetie. Wake up. There’s work to be done.”

≫ The Doctor is the least visibly affected by the reveal that you are a reincarnation of the human from so long ago. Though the past was obviously a sore and fragile wound, he is actually more invested in the how rather than the why.

≫ He lists every last question that comes to his mind, every possible test and procedure he can do to possibly explain this strange phenomenon. He wants, no, needs to know every detail of how you returned, how you came back the same and yet so very different.

≫ It’s not really a surprise that he wants to keep you, though not exactly in any ethical or entirely moral sense. If you become a circus doll dressed in pink? Good. If you’re alive and fully conscious/lucid? Great! If you’re dead? Not ideal, but he’ll get what he can out of this.

≫ The Doctor favors you over his other dolls and test subjects. He likes you, even! But he doesn’t entirely respect or acknowledge the fact that you have your own autonomy and will. He isn’t cruel or rude in the slightest, just…subtly condescending. A little bit patronizing.

≫ He’s quite used to treating humans as test subjects instead of…well, you know, people. It’s gonna take a while for him to see you outside of those rigid norms. (Assuming you survive long enough for him to do so)

≫ If you put in enough effort, you could get him to acknowledge the past and the part he played in it. But there isn’t much to say about what happened, is there? That was then. This is now. And now the two were intersecting, and he wants to know why and how.

≫ But if you challenge him in your own way by observing him just as much as he tries to observe you…that makes him halt temporarily. It reminds him of the way he used to study and learn from that human from his cage just in the same way that creature once learned from his and the others’ stories.

≫ Funnily enough, despite the fact that the Doctor wants nothing more than to splay your innards once more, to peel you apart layer by layer…I imagine he’d actually end up being the least of your worries in the circus.

≫ He can’t kill his most important patient, after all. He still has so many questions to quell his insatiable morbid curiosity, and when one is answered, two more form from the previous conclusion.

≫ So he won’t hurt you. Not seriously, anyway.

Jester:

≫ The Jester senses something strange before he sees anything. It's subtle, easily missed and just as easily brushed off. It gives him a feeling that someone, something, was slinking around. But oddly enough, its not a bad feeling. Instead, it's...familiar.

≫ But monsters aren’t attuned to the supernatural or paranormal. Jester merely attributes such feelings and contemplations to the time of year near the anniversary…the yearly time of that fateful moonless night. That must be it. He wasn’t immune to nostalgia, that had to be it.

≫ But unlike some of the other circus members, Jester remembers that old night with startling clarity. Every word. Every tear shed. Every bite. And he remembers that human who insisted on intruding into their godforsaken prison. Their face, their scent, their eyes filled with so much naivety and unmarred goodness. It's sickening. Yet he never fights those memories when they emerge.

≫ So it's especially strange that so many things are suddenly remembered when you arrive to the circus. Jester feels it before he sees it, a presence so familiar and unbearably nostalgic that it genuinely puts him on edge for the first time in a long time.

≫ And when that he gets a proper look at the human, when they finally make their way to his tent and his play...that feeling only multiplies. He stares into your eyes, watches the way you turn away to leave yet also glance behind your shoulder. Something coils and writhes behind his ribcage upon seeing that. Seeing you.

≫ A part of him wishes to immediately string you up as one of his dolls, examine every part of your mind. But a larger side of him decides to wait. If you really were anything like the one before...you'd be back. It was simply in your nature.

≫ And how right he was. He sees you wandering near the circus threshold, eyes filled with so many emotions and a desire to know. And that’s when he makes the connection far faster than any of the others. But he has to make sure.

≫ He indulged you before with knowledge...why not indulge you now?

≫ And so he decides to make a test out of this. A judgement of character, in a sense. He uses and puppets one of his Fools to lead and guide you to a place where no guest is allowed to go. To his personal quarters, just past the outskirts of the circus itself. You hesitate at the entrance, yet you go in anyway. Jester knew you would. It was in your nature, after all.

≫ So curious. So naive. So desperate for answers, even after all this time.

≫ You don't even notice how he effortlessly followed you in, hiding in the shadows and watching your every move. How nostalgic, he thinks.

≫ Violet eyes watch from the darkness as you seem to have some sense of intuition that prompts you to slowly move towards a specific storage box. It's old yet reliable, and it houses many precious things. But you are drawn to only one precious thing in that entire assortment.

≫ Your fingers tremble slightly as you gently pick up something loosely wrapped in cloth. That cloth is then peeled away from the item, a fragile and singed book with burnt edges now held in your hands. The pages are thin and extraordinarily brittle, no different from dead leaves. The spine is warped, and the words written inside are just barely legible.

≫ Jester watches the way your fingers gently trace the words written in that journal, your face twitching and subtly shifting in a way he had seen many times before in many humans who had learned just a little too much. Recognition. Dread. Realization.

≫ He hears you exhale a short and shaky breath when you carefully turn a few pages and land on a set of old drawings. Dark-inked sketches of shadowy figures that appear both humanoid and animalistic. Jester had flipped through that diary himself so many times over so many years that he could tell exactly what pages you were looking at.

“They spoke again tonight. They told me about their old home. A valley. It was as empty of food as it was full of mouths to feed. Monsters Beasts of all kinds lived there. Tight-knit families and clans and groups. But there were also those who had broken away from their kind to have better chances at survival. What is better, to live among those you love and suffer from empty stomachs and suffocating cages together, or survive alone and suffer only of loneliness? I am not quite sure I fully understand either option. I have always had Father, but…I have also always felt lonely. Perhaps humans suffer differently from other creatures. Or maybe we all suffer the same.”

≫ Beneath that written passage was a set of sketches of flowers in various states of bloom and decay, then a rendition of the beasts in their cages with their luminous eyes and sharp edges. Jester knew it without even fully seeing the pages.

≫ He stepped forth from the darkness then, the bells fastened to the ends of his cap and atop his boots jingling just a little. The sound was more than enough to make you flinch and jolt your head in his direction, eyes reflecting just how startled you were. You didn't say anything for a moment, and neither did he.

≫ “You."

≫ It's the only word that comes from your mouth. One word, and it means more than an hour's worth of speaking. It's spoken with awareness, dread, sorrow, but also...

≫ Just the slightest bit of familiarity. But that familiarity wasn't yours to have. Not here. Not now.

≫ It was all the Jester needed to hear to know everything he needed to.

≫ "I-"

≫ “Why do you return to us now, creature? Why here? Why come back at all? Why haunt us in this way?”

≫ You say nothing. The journal in your hands was clutched to your chest as though it truly did belong to you. And in a sense, it did. With wetted eyes and paralyzed limbs you continued to stare at him, unable to answer his questions. His eyes narrowed, face uncharacteristically unsmiling.

≫ “You shouldn’t have come back, beast. There’s nothing left for you in this place.”

≫ He notices the way your eyes widen slightly with the nickname, like you recognized it as once being yours. He didn’t even realize he had used it for the first time in many years.

≫ “...Unless you wish to do this all over again?"

≫ He steps closer to you, moving one of his black-clawed hands near your neck and just below your jaw, almost grazing his long and sharp fingers near the skin there. But just before his sharp fingertips could make any contact, he stops himself. Whether for your sake or his, not even he knows.

≫ What would your heart taste like this time, he briefly wonders. Would your bones still scrape so cleanly like they did last time? Would your flesh still taste sweet...or would it now become bitter from fear?

≫ You still don’t answer him. Did you interpret his words as a threat? A promise? An invitation? Not even the Jester himself entirely knows how he intended them.

≫ He has an urge to claim your mind, to make you one of his dolls. It would certainly make tracking you far easier. But for some reason he doesn’t. Besides the logical reasoning that Pierrot would certainly react poorly to his pet being toyed with, there’s something else preventing him.

≫ But he cleverly hides his inner turmoil. Disguises it as toying with you by pulling you one way and then another when in reality his mind shifts like a tide. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Going everywhere and nowhere.

≫ Should he kill you, nip this little problem in the bud? Should he keep you as a doll, claim your name and your face and hide you where nobody could find you?

≫ The Jester is uncharacteristically and completely indecisive, a very rare occurrence. He was used to handling the burdens of making hard decisions, used to being looked towards for answers and conclusions. But here, he had no answer for himself.

≫ He simply does not know what to do. And that unsettles him more than your existence.

≫ It would be rather easy to simply get rid of this problem entirely. It’s what Bil would do. Yet he also finds himself wanting to know about this strange occurrence in its entirety. Why did you come back? How? Are you merely a mimicking echo of that dear human, or are you something else?

≫ You are not that human from before. Not entirely, anyway. Here and now, you’re less afraid. Less naive. But still bold. Still ignorant of the toll that must be paid to cross over into the beast’s world, their world where to love is to devour and to suffer is to survive.

≫ You’re in their environment now. And there was nothing stopping him or anyone else from tearing you apart and making you a ghost of the past once more. Or worse.

≫ Nothing except, well…those damned undefined feelings that still reside in his blackened and twisted heart even now. It would be…a wasted opportunity, of sorts, to kill you now. Not when there were opportunities to learn from what you are and how you came back.

Columbina:

≫ Columbina has been so unfathomably lonely for these many years. She can’t recall many details of her life before the old circus, can’t remember what it was like not to suffer in one form or another.

≫ But what she can remember more than anything else, more than her own death, is a light in the darkness. A source of comfort from her feelings of filthiness and a distraction from her hunger pains. A human who wished to help her and her kin. Why? She didn’t know. Not at first.

≫ But she also saw your goodness, your desire to help simply because it was the right thing to do. You saw beings who were suffering and wanted to alleviate their pain. Why weren’t all humans like that?

≫ Such questions will never be answered.

≫ The Little Dove can only hope that she had told you enough to remain safe and close to her. Would you piece everything together? Would you keep trying to ignore what she already knew?

≫ She could only hope you’d come back, that you would be alive, that the others wouldn’t give in to their suffering and be rid of their only chance at peace…

≫ You were a shining light of hope for redemption, a mercy from fate made manifest into flesh born anew. There was no way the others could be so callous as to be rid of you once more. Columbina knows that there’s still goodness in them hidden away somewhere.

≫ She closes her eyes, trying to focus on that light, your presence. It’s all she can do to weakly remedy her insurmountable sorrow and isolation. Was it her own mind conjuring such naive thoughts? Maybe insanity had finally come to claim her mind.

≫ And then she realizes that the light isn’t merely a hallucination or a dream, it’s real. You’re here. Here and alive and present and drawing near the mirror that houses Columbina’s spirit.

≫ Step by careful step, you approach the echo of her presence, eyes wide but not afraid. You seem more sad than anything else. Like her.

≫ "Its you. You…you knew me, and I knew you.”

≫ She just nods. Of course she knew you. She knows you better than she knows herself. If she were blind or deaf or unfeeling she’d still know you.

≫ Columbina never thought she’d see you again. Not while she was still here like this. Her chest aches when she sees the knowing look in your eyes, and her undefined hands press against her side of the mirror’s surface.

≫ "Sorry...to have you shoulder these pains and burdens."

≫ Her dark and cold hands reach out past the mirror, though not without great effort from her end. It's been so long, and she only has so much energy to interact with the living. It's a good thing you have such an attunement to things beyond the mortal veil. A part of her aches further when she cradles your warm face in her barely corporeal hands.

≫ "Sweet human. You who attempted to aid us once before. You who paid the price for my mistakes..."

≫ Be you a phantom or a cruel figment of the Ticket Taker's looking-glass illusions or truly a reincarnation...the Little Dove no longer cared. She just wants this one chance to see you again, alive and well...It brings her soul just the slightest bit of peace for her lingering guilt and regret for not being able to protect you better.

≫ "I wish there was more I could do for you. But all I can do is ask this one thing."

≫ She has no right to ask of anything from you, this she knows with every fiber of her being. Yet she asks anyway. This was the only way to get a somewhat happy ending for everyone...

≫ "Amorzinho...see the others not for what they've done, but for who they are. We are more than monsters. More than foul devils. You showed us that once."

≫ It was selfish of her to expect you to bring peace to her kin simply for being what you are. She knew all too well what it was like to have roles and titles substitute her name and identity. But she wouldn't have asked this of you if she believed there to be another way.

≫ She strokes her thumbs against your face then, already knowing what you were feeling without you needing to say it aloud.

≫ There’s an understanding in your eyes. Those memories, those dreams and feelings and recollections…they were still yours even now. There’s also a tinge of fear in your expression. A deep dread of losing who you are now in order to remember who you once were.

≫ “You have a good soul, dearest one. You always have, and you always will.”

≫ There was no angel watching over you or Columbina on that moonless night. The two of you met with unfortunate deaths, but not endings. But with this one chance, maybe something become of this. Maybe she could become your guardian angel if nothing and nobody else would.

≫ No harm will come to you, she’ll make sure of it with everything she has and everything she is. Maybe Columbina could redeem herself in this way. Maybe she could atone for her past mistakes by ensuring that you stay alive.

≫ She leans forward, her face reaching the top of yours. It drains her to do so, but she presses her lips to your forehead in a gesture of care. Of protection. Something wet trickles over her thumbs on your face. Tears. She swipes them away slowly with her thumbs, nudging her forehead against yours. She faintly remembers that gesture from her family.

≫ “I’m sorry.”

≫ For dragging you into this again. For not being able to do more. For not being able to protect her only friend in that wretched prison. For not being able to protect you better in the present. For placing this burden of choice upon you.

≫ Your voice is hushed and thick with apologetic grief when you finally respond.

≫ “I’m sorry, too.”

≫ For not being there in time. For not being able to save her from that awful fate. For not being able to save any of them…

≫ Columbina just holds you closer. A deep sorrow roils within her very being.

≫ It is certainly not your responsibility, but…a part of her wishes for you to take care of the others since she cannot. They’re so lost, so hurt, so convinced of their brokenness and irreparable suffering.

≫ The others obviously aren’t entirely innocent, but she knows better than anyone that there is no such thing as black and white in this place. Despite their best efforts to make it seem otherwise, everything resides in shades of grey.

≫ No matter what choice you make, if you wish to live out your second chance at life away from the circus, if you wish to remain here and seek whatever it is you desire from this place…Columbina will do her best to help you. She knows what it’s like to be unable to choose her fate. She knows that you had been deprived of choice once before.

≫ The least she can do is honor your wishes and autonomy, and try to answer whatever questions you may have.

≫ If it is the circus, your past life, or the others you wish to know more about, then she will tell you everything she knows. You were kind enough to listen to her story and remember it for what it was. So she’ll give you whatever it is you need to remain safe in this place where knowledge is a double-edged sword.

≫ Or if you wish to live your fullest without any burdens of the past, to live the life you were denied in your previous life, then she will tell you anything and everything you need to disarm the others, to escape the cycle of eating or being eaten.

≫ Just as long as you make your choice without any regrets…then she will bear no sorrow or resentment towards you.

————

≫ Knowing what you know now, what can you possibly hope to do?

≫ Perhaps this would be the point where you decide whether to forgive the beasts for what they had done, or seek some feeble form of revenge, or perhaps even attempt to get some closure for your undeserved and untimely death long ago. But if you’re quite honest with yourself…

≫ None of those options sound like something you could do. Not yet, anyway.

≫ But you can’t just move on with your life like nothing happened. There would always be a part of you that’s just so…sad. So restless for answers and reasoning. And it will always eat away at you from the inside.

≫ You will always be in pain from wanting things from those who do not and will not want to give you anything.

≫ The lines between who you were, who you are, who you wanted to be, and who you are yet to become are blurred and undefined. Story becomes memory. Memory becomes knowledge. Knowledge becomes suffering.

≫ But maybe there was another way. Another hope beyond these sad cycles of violence and fear and twisted care. Your story may not have had any happy or fair beginning…but maybe that’s why you were still here.

≫ (How funny. Still so naive after all these years. That’s going to be your end, you know. Or is it?)

≫ It all depends on your choices. If not for yourself in the present, then maybe for that young and innocent version of yourself from so long ago. And for the Little Dove who did not deserve such a brutal end.

≫ There is one thing that is almost certain, though. The circus members are not quite done with you yet. One way or another, you’ll find yourself inextricably linked to them. Resent or embrace or ignore it all you want, it makes no difference.

≫ Between knowing fear and naive hope, what will you choose?

≫ Will you put in the work, try to get some form of closure for yourself and create unbreakable bonds with the monsters in this life as well? Or will you seek answers more directly through any means necessary and at any cost, including your sanity and closeness with them? That, I will leave up to you.

————————

≫ GOD this took a lot out of me. Had to fight myself to write at least a little bit every day before my brain would turn to sludge. >.>

≫ I listened to the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack while listening to this so I'm sorry if this all seems a little melodramatic LOL (I may or may not have drawn just a little inspiration from the mirror scene for TT’s section…iykyk)

≫ I also listened to the Ballad of Jane Doe from Ride The Cyclone as a sort of inspiration for the MC's plight with their nature! I don’t see a lot of reincarnation stories where the main character genuinely has an existential crisis over who they were, who they are, and who they are expected to become.

≫ I wish I was good at art so I could draw out some of the things I thought of while making this, but alas, I am not. (Whatever higher power that exists had to nerf me I swear) Guess we’re all gonna have to use our imaginations!

≫ This is actually my first ever time making any sort of AU thing, so I apologize if any of this isn’t very good by AU standards. I’m still learning! >_<

≫ Feel free to ask further questions about this AU in my ask box or make content of your own about it! I’d love to see how you guys could interpret this. :)

≫ This and all of my posts are made entirely without the use of generative AI. I do not consent to any of my work being scraped, copied, or otherwise fed into any form of character-based AI or other LLM. If you’re going to do that anyway, then don’t tell me about it.

He called himself an Archivist. He said it gave the store more “personality.” In his time, he was well known. People sought him out when they needed a rare book found, a damaged one restored, or a beloved volume repaired. Though he was deeply passionate about his craft, no one else in the family seemed interested in continuing it.

Except you.

You were the closest to him from the time you were a child, so naturally you spent hours in his shop. You watched his calloused hands flip carefully through fragile pages, smoothing worn edges. You remember how he sat quietly in the corner beneath a dim desk lamp, the light barely bright enough, yet his fingers still moved swiftly. How he pulled his glasses from the front pocket of his shirt and slipped them on whenever a new order arrived. His fingertips were always coated in glue and dust from ancient books, his nails permanently darkened from years of work.

The rest of the family often complained, telling him to wash his hands when he came home.

And he did. Especially when he wanted to pick you up.

But after years of doing the same work over and over again, the stains had sunk too deep. They clung to him as if they belonged there, as proof of everything he had created, restored, and preserved.

When he grew old, he decided to retire. Your uncle took over the store at first, but his heart was never truly in it. None of his children wanted anything to do with the business either. And so, having learned everything directly from your grandfather, the responsibility eventually fell to you.

After college and years of working a nine-to-five job, you found yourself exhausted by the pace and monotony of that life. You wanted something quieter. Something slower. And you couldn’t bear the thought of closing your grandfather’s store.

By the time you officially took over, technology had advanced and bookstores had begun to pop up everywhere. Few people came to yours to buy books anymore. Most visitors arrived with damaged bindings, torn covers, or old volumes worn away by time, hoping you could restore them.

Occasionally, a rare old soul would wander in, someone searching for a book long forgotten, out of print, or simply impossible to find.

At first, you didn’t take on the work out of passion. It was a habit. Familiarity. Comfort. Still, the business remained steady. You had loyal regulars, and somehow, the rise of “aesthetic reading” brought new customers to your door. They sought custom bindings and covers, personal touches that made books feel alive again.

Fortunately, you had an eye for design. Your grandfather had always been an artist at heart, and he had passed that on to you. Custom work came naturally.

Yet, slowly, exhaustion crept in.

Not because you’d lost your passion but because you’d reached that age where the world seemed washed in gray. Where fewer things sparked interest. Where even the things you loved began to feel heavy in your hands.

And the quiet of the shop no longer felt peaceful, it felt endless.

At some point during those long years in the field, you did consider closing the store.

Only considered, though. You never truly sat down and thought it through. You had earned enough over the years to live comfortably, enough to walk away and find something else to do if you wanted. But for now, you chose to wait. Just a little longer until you could decide what you really wanted.

.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖

You were in the shop as usual, working behind the counter. Books lay open in front of you, glue set off to the side as you repaired a binding with practiced ease. The brass bell above the door rang softly as a customer stepped inside.

“Good morning, Archivist!”

A young girl entered with a bright smile, her voice echoing through the quiet room and breaking its stillness.

“Good morning, Sarah.” You returned her greeting with a small smile of your own, amused by her energy.

Archivist had been a familiar title since your grandfather still ran the store. When the business was passed down, your family decided to keep it. Your regulars grew used to calling you that instead of your real name, and you didn’t mind. In fact, you liked it. It made you feel as though your grandfather was still here, his presence lingering, his scent carved into every corner of the place.

Sunlight spilled through the glass windows, dust motes dancing in the air, but somehow Sarah’s smile still seemed brighter than the light itself.

She was a college student and one of your many regulars. Sarah loved writing and ran a small blog where she shared her stories. You’d heard about her journey before, how she started writing fanfiction for fun, only for it to grow into a passion. Eventually, she began working on her own original stories and slowly built a loyal following online. Recently, she’d told you she’d sent her manuscript to several publishers, hopeful for good news. Weeks had passed, though, and there had been no calls or emails.

Why was she such a frequent visitor?

Well, she had a vivid imagination and an endlessly creative mind. She loved both reading and writing, which meant fanfiction too. She often came into your shop carrying thick stacks of papers, so heavy you wondered how someone her size managed to carry them at all. She’d ask if you could bind them and design covers, explaining that they were stories she’d collected from bloggers online. She wanted physical copies, something real she could hold in her hands.

You never refused a customer.

Sometimes, she came prepared with detailed ideas: color schemes, patterns, textures, exact visions of how she wanted the covers to look. She preferred handmade covers over printed ones. Other times, she was completely stuck, creativity running dry, and she’d ask if you could design the covers yourself.

One day, as you looked at the piles of paper on your desk, you asked if she would mind letting you read some of them. If you were going to create something meant to carry another person’s work, you wanted to understand what the author had poured into it. You didn’t want to give her something careless, something that failed to reflect the meaning held within those pages.

Her face flushed at the suggestion, and she stumbled over her words. There were clearly things she didn’t want you to read.

In the end, she separated a few files and told you those were fine, ones you could look through and use as inspiration. As for the rest, she said your standard covers were more than enough.

You understood without asking. And you respected her boundaries.

Maybe it was because of this girl that something began to change.

Somewhere within your dull, colorless life, a small spark of light appeared. The talent hidden in those pages amazed you, the creativity, the imagination, the voices quietly tucked away between lines of text. You found yourself wondering whether any of those authors would ever publish their own books.

Reading those stories reminded you of how much you once loved reading yourself. It stirred something dormant inside you, reigniting your desire to create. Each cover and binding you made became different from the last, no two alike. Each reflected the individuality of its creator.

And Sarah?

She loved your work. Loved it so much that she made you promise when she finally published her first book, you would be the one to design its cover.

You agreed.

And maybe the reason you’d stayed for so long was because you were waiting to see her succeed.

Lately, she had been absent, running from place to place because of her new work. This was the first time you’d seen her in weeks. She was still the same: bright, bubbly, full of life. But when she stood in front of you now, you noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes and asked softly, “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, that’d be great. Thank you so much!” She took a seat in front of the counter, as if it were mandatory by now.

You turned toward the back and prepared a cup of tea, the same jasmine blend she always liked. Normally, you didn’t keep snacks or drinks in the shop. But over the years, as your regulars continued to support the business, you’d begun remembering their favorites. Small comforts to keep them company while you worked.

You placed the cup in front of her. “It’s still a bit hot. Let it cool down first.”

She nodded, then her eyes lit up as sunlight hit them just right.

“Archivist, I have an idea for my book cover… but I might need your help.”

Before you could ask anything, she was already rummaging through her bag. She always carried something far too large for her frame. Sometimes you wondered if she kept an entire other world in there. Last time, she’d pulled out a small bouquet of flowers and handed it to you, saying it would add more color to the shop.

You’d accepted them. The flowers lasted about a week in a glass bottle on the counter. They did brighten the place, but you’d never seriously considered keeping plants around. Taking care of books was demanding enough, plants were even more fragile. You didn’t trust yourself not to neglect them.

She finally pulled out a bullet journal and flipped through it. Every page and corner was filled with her handwriting, decorated with doodles and notes. Sticky tabs marked nearly every section. It looked cluttered, yet somehow organized. She stopped on one page and lifted the journal, pushing it close to your face.

Your glasses, hanging from the strap around your neck, swung slightly as you stepped back at her sudden movement. She never quite understood personal space, so you’d learned to be careful. You slipped your glasses on and gently took the journal from her hands.

Pressed neatly onto the page were small petals, flattened carefully alongside her sketches and notes.

“It’s lily of the valley!” she said eagerly. “I always buy them from the flower shop downtown. I’ve been too busy to visit lately, but the florist still kept some for me. Isn’t she nice?”

You smiled faintly. “That’s normal. You’re a regular.”

She pouted at your dry response and lightly thumped the counter. “Boo. Flowers aren’t easy to maintain, you know. But she still kept them for me.” She lifted her cup, blew on the tea, and took a small sip. “They were starting to wither, so she asked if I wanted them pressed instead. I said yes, and she made these for me. Don’t you think they’re adorable?”

“They’re thoughtful,” you said, studying the petals again. There was still a faint floral scent clinging to the paper, and your thoughts drifted to the florist downtown.

You’d seen her a few times while walking through town. She always seemed busy, sweeping sidewalks, wiping windows, even picking up trash for neighboring stores. You knew the shop’s real owner, an old woman who’d once been friends with your grandfather. 

You recalled how the florist carried herself, her gaze often lowered, avoiding eye contact. Much like lily of the valley itself. You’d never spoken to her, only heard about her through others. People seemed indifferent toward her, but her regulars spoke warmly. She was young, after all. Knowing what you love at that age felt like a gift.

Still, you never understood why Sarah loved lily of the valley so much. She said it resembled her but you couldn’t see it. The flower was shy and reserved, while Sarah radiated brightness and warmth.

“You know,” Sarah suddenly said, breaking your thoughts, “the reason I became her regular was because she let me in one night.”

You looked up at her.

“She was really kind. I was burned out from my part-time job back then.” She scratched her cheek, embarrassed. “I kind of… broke down in the middle of the street. She was taking out the trash and just invited me in for tea. We talked, and then she gave me flowers to cheer me up.”

You listened quietly, a small smile forming. Youthful, both of them. Kind or maybe naive. Too trusting. In your eyes, kindness wasn’t something to be given freely in this world.

But you said nothing. You didn’t want to shatter that fragile bubble.

“So?” Sarah leaned forward, eyes on the journal still in your hands. “What do you think of my idea?”

“Pressed flowers are beautiful,” you said slowly, setting the journal down. “But are you sure you want to use them?”

She grew quiet, tapping her fingers against the counter. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“It’s your work,” you replied gently. “You’ll understand it best, whether it’s tangible or not.”

She took the journal back, nodding. “You’re right. I should think about it more carefully.” 

She sipped her tea while you returned to your work, replacing the binding on an old book.

“Archivist,” she said after a moment, her voice softer. “What flowers do you like?”

You didn’t look up. “That’s a difficult question. I don’t know much about flowers.”

“What?” She laughed lightly. “Have you never given any of your partners flowers before?”

You chuckled. “I have. But it was usually something standard. Most of them didn’t care much for flowers either.”

She didn’t press further.

“You know, the florist always tells customers which flower they resemble,” she said brightly. “Isn’t that creative?”

“Really?” You finished the binding and set the book aside. “What flower do you think I resemble?”

She studied your face for a moment too long. “Hmm… I’m not sure… If I had to choose, maybe hellebore?”

You laughed softly. “And why is that?”

“Don’t you read a lot, Archivist?” she teased. “You should find out yourself.”

You only smiled.

No matter how many books you read, no matter how much knowledge you gathered, there would always be things you didn’t know. That was simply how the world worked.

Sarah, seemingly bored by your lack of reaction. “Right,” she sighed. “I need to do something to get my inspiration back. I’ve lost the will to do anything lately.” She looked at you, searching. “What do you do when that happens?”

You listened to her question, and it pulled you back to a time when you were around her age, young, somewhat ambitious, full of ideas, yet utterly lost. So many paths had crossed your life back then that you never knew which one to follow.

What did you do in those days?

Run away? Not really. You were never bold enough for that.

Face it head-on? Not quite either. You remembered spending countless nights locked in your room, drowning in your own thoughts, caught in endless breakdowns.

“I’d hang out with my friends.”

After a brief pause, that was the only answer you gave. The girl gasped dramatically.

“Wow. Such meaningful advice,” she said flatly. “I hang out with my friends all the time.”

Her dissatisfaction was written plainly on her face as she stared at you expectantly.

“If you really want advice,” you continued, your tone a little more serious now, “I only have one.” She leaned in to listen more closely. “You’re still young, and you’re doing great. Sometimes, relaxing is important. Don’t push yourself too hard.”

Her eyes lit up again, and she laughed. “I know! I’m still young and pretty, and you still haven’t settled down, booboo.”

You ignored the childish jab.

Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at it before standing, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Oh no, I’ve gotta go. Thanks for the tea! I’ll visit again when I have free time.”

Before you could say a proper goodbye, she was already gone, the door closing behind her.

.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖

You let out a small sigh and carried her cup to the back to wash it. As you rinsed it under running water, the brass bell rang again, followed by a faint sound you couldn’t quite make out. You heard no footsteps.

Did Sarah forget something? Or was there another customer?

You turned off the tap, dried your hands on a towel, and walked back toward the front.

“Archivist here. What may I help you-”

Your words slowed as you came face-to-face with the person in your shop. He was tall and slender. And odd.

His outfit was strange, his posture stranger still. He stood near the bookshelves, head tilted slightly as though studying the spines with great care. But it was hard to tell, his face was hidden behind a white porcelain mask. Long purple hair spilled down his back, swaying faintly when he moved.

You froze for a moment. It wasn’t every day someone dressed like a performer wandered into your shop. Then it clicked, there had been a circus in town recently. He must be part of it. That would explain the costume.

And yet…

Something about him felt wrong. Not dangerous but off. His presence alone made your skin prickle, an unease you couldn’t put into words.

What would someone like him want in your crooked old bookstore? People rarely came here to buy books anymore. He didn’t seem to be carrying anything that needed repair. Perhaps he’d simply wandered in out of curiosity.

As if sensing your gaze, he turned his head.

The movement was slow. The bells on his hat jingled softly, the sound echoing through the quiet shop. Somewhat unsettling.

You recovered quickly, schooling your expression as you returned behind the counter. A small, polite smile followed.

“May I assist you with anything?”

The man seemed to smile behind his mask as his gaze drifted back to the shelves behind him then slowly across the rest of the store.

“Oh, I’m simply a visitor.”

His voice was strange. Eerie, yet edged with something theatrical. Light as wind on a moonless night, slipping through leaves and stirring them into a soft rustle that carried through the quiet.

He approached the counter, and somehow, you found it difficult to look away.

“I was curious about your store because of the sign outside.”

You remembered it then.

The sign had been there for so long it was likely frayed and blurred by time, sun, rain, wind wearing it down year after year.

Here we restore your memories.

A bold statement. It had been there for as long as you could remember since before you could even read. Your store didn’t have a name, only that sign. Most people who came here were longtime residents or regulars who already knew the place well.

“I see. Most travelers don’t come to my store,” you replied calmly.

“Is there anything that interests you?”

His eyes wandered once more, lingering everywhere, drinking in details rather than sightseeing. It felt less like curiosity and more like analysis.

“You see, I’m new to the area,” he said slowly. “And I’d love to learn about the culture and history here.” His gaze flicked toward the bound books on your counter. “I believe I’ve come to the right place.”

You returned a polite smile. “Most people would go to the bookstore downtown for something new. My place isn’t usually their first choice.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” he replied confidently. “I’m not looking for new books. I’m something of an old soul.” His voice threaded softly through the air. “I prefer books that need to be preserved.”

His words made you oddly self-conscious. It had been a long time since anyone had managed that. You felt his gaze drop briefly to your hands, your chipped nails, worn down by years of work. You shifted them slightly out of view.

“I see. And what are you looking for, Mr…?”

“Jester,” he interrupted gently. “You may call me Jester. My profession has strict rules about staying in character.”

“Very well, Mr. Jester.” You took out your notebook.

“I’d like to learn about the historical places here,” he said. “And the language as well.”

That surprised you. “You said you’re a visitor, but your accent is quite good.”

“Haha, you flatter me.” His laughter made his shoulders shake slightly, bells chiming in rhythm, sound sinking deeper than it should. “I studied beforehand. We travel often, you see. We’re a circus.”

You were already forming recommendations in your mind.

“My fellow performers, kids you know, really aren’t very interested in learning,” he continued. “So I want to give them something tangible to hold onto.” His gloved fingers tapped against the counter. The sound was sharp. A chill traced your spine.

“I have a few books in mind,” you said, turning toward the shelves. You knew every location by heart, you had organized them yourself.

You placed several books neatly on the counter.

“This one covers traditional poetry and literature. This is a beginner’s guide to the language. This one details preserved landmarks and local history. This discusses the art housed in the museum downtown.” You paused, smoothing the edge of the final book. “This one is my favorite, traditional handicrafts of our town.”

The covers were worn a bit, but lovingly maintained.

“They’re old, but the pages are well preserved,” you added, allowing him to flip through them. “I can rebind them and design new covers if you’d like.”

He looked up slowly from the book in his hands.

“That would be wonderful. My companions are… jealous,” he admitted thoughtfully. “I often get headaches trying to give them things fairly.”

You chuckled softly, imagining young people much like Sarah.

“Do you have any preferences for the covers?”

He tapped his chin, as though gears were turning behind the mask.

“That’s quite a decision. But perhaps I can describe them to you. And you can help me decide?”

You nodded. “Of course. Helping customers is my duty.”

He laughed, satisfied. 

He spoke of them one by one.

The first: quiet, towering, gentle beneath his silence. Jester clearly had a soft spot for him.

The second made him sigh: mischievous, troublesome, sensitive to jealousy and neglect. Discipline weighed heavily on Jester when it came to this one.

The third was dependable, sharing responsibility with Jester for keeping the others in line.

The last needed no supervision at all, capable of caring not only for himself, but for the entire troupe if necessary.

You listened carefully, committing each detail to memory as you gathered sample materials.

Pierrot.

Chalk-white calfskin. Silver leaf along the spine. Pages sewn tighter than necessary, Jester had said he could be rough with belongings.

Harlequin.

Deep oxblood leather, cracked like old paint. A diamond-pattern inlay, subtly misaligned. A tight spine. For a poetic mind, Jester had said.

Ticket Taker.

Darkened brown leather. Ledger-style binding.

Doctor.

Blackened leather. Heavy boards, reinforced spine. Built to endure because his hands were large.

And finally, Jester himself.

Goatskin dyed. A looser binding, the spine creaked when opened.

He seemed pleased with your choices.

You worked carefully, hands moving with speed. Glue clung to your fingertips as you wiped them against the towel beside you. By the time you finished, the scent of adhesive mingled with the soft perfume of old paper.

Jester fell quiet, lost in thought.

Then, slowly, his gaze lifted back to you.

Sunlight filtered through the window, dancing across the purple patterns of his mask until they seemed almost tranquil beneath the glow. Your eyes met his, though there was nothing to truly see. He let out a soft laugh.

“Such distinctive eyes you have.”

You knew it was meant as a compliment, yet it stirred a faint curiosity.

“Do my choices suit your companions’ tastes?” you asked. He tilted his head slightly, bells chiming, before extending his hand.

Something shimmered beneath the light.

Between his long, clawed gloves rested a ticket, gold and purple, neatly pressed and polished. It gleamed faintly, the circus name embossed across its surface.

Your gaze flicked back to him as he spoke.

“Why don’t you visit my show? You might gain a clearer understanding of the boys.”

The offer came so suddenly you hesitated, unsure whether to take it.

“Consider it repayment for your kindness,” he added, a hint of persuasiveness. “And besides, the more, the merrier, isn’t it?”

You could almost feel his smile deepen behind the mask.

After a moment, you accepted the ticket. He seemed pleased. You tucked it carefully into the front pocket of your apron and reached beneath the counter for a paper bag, wrapping the books with care before placing them neatly inside.

When he took the bag from your hands, you felt it, an alien coldness, even through the fabric of his gloves. You dismissed it as nothing.

He paused at the door.

“Thank you for your guidance, Mr. Archivist.”

And then he was gone.

.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖

Later that evening, as you closed the shop and removed your apron, the ticket slipped free and fluttered to the floor. You picked it up, studying it in silence.

Should you go?

You knew the circus advertised itself as horror-themed, gory, explicit, not for children. You weren’t particularly curious. But you also had nothing planned, and being alone often meant your thoughts grew louder than you liked.

So you went.

You sat through the show, Jester’s show and found yourself oddly detached. What you saw and heard felt like any other story you’d read before. Nothing truly new. Horror and gore had never unsettled you much. At most, you felt a passing chill.

You wandered through the tents, the green, the cyan, the red. Even the mirror tent. Still, nothing stirred. Nothing sparked.

Only the Doctor in the cyan tent gave you pause.

“Oh, you reek of his scent.”

Whose scent?

The question lingered only briefly before fading. It wasn’t enough to hold your interest. You went home, untouched by the spectacle. Monsters or not, it didn’t matter to you. Nothing there reached you.

But after that night, Jester began visiting your store every day.

Sometimes he brought books, old ones, asking for new bindings and covers. Some looked older than anything you’d ever handled, nearly ancient. Other times, he came only to talk.

He said what drew him to your shop was its loneliness, crooked, forgotten, overshadowed by the newer stores on the street. Neglected, yet charming.

You weren’t sure whether to be offended or flattered.

Either way, he wasn’t wrong.

Loneliness was familiar to you. Growing up had been lonely. Growing older felt even more so.

You asked him questions. He asked you some in return. His answers were always vague so you mirrored him. Slowly, it began to feel as though he was persuading you toward something. Guiding you somewhere you couldn’t yet see.

His manner of speaking was strange. Most people slipped out of character eventually, no matter how disciplined. But he never did. The mask never dropped. At times, it felt less like a role and more like a part of him.

You assumed he wouldn’t stay long. Perhaps he simply needed a stranger, someone quiet, someone lonely to share a fleeting sense of peace.

So you continued your days as they were.

Only now, you were no longer alone.

And you believed that was all there was to it.

Until one day, your grandfather lay on his deathbed.

He had been ill for a long time, so long that the family had already begun preparing themselves. You visited him twice a week, though there was little you could do. The man on the bed barely breathed, his body thin and still. Most of the time, he couldn’t recognize anyone, not even family.

As the end drew closer, you closed the store to be with them.

In his final moments, he called your name.

The sound was hoarse and heavy, and it startled everyone in the room, yourself included. You stayed by his side until his breathing finally slowed, then stopped.

And just like that, your grandfather was gone.

It was a beautiful day.

Sunlight filtered through leaves, wind stirred the curtains, and people walked freely down the streets. There was a faint floral scent in the air as you passed by the shops. On impulse, you stepped inside one of them to buy flowers, your mind completely empty.

The florist was a young woman with a soft smile, her gaze often lowered. She asked what kind of flowers you were looking for, who they were for. Family? A partner? A friend? Yourself? Did you have any preferences?

You had none.

Only an emptiness in your chest. Not grief but more like something had been carved out long ago and never filled again.

You told her an important person had passed away.

She paused, caught off guard, then quickly composed herself. She suggested you choose something for yourself instead, something to help calm your mind. And she was right. You hadn’t slept well in days, moving endlessly between home and hospital.

As your eyes lingered on her, you remembered what Sarah had once said that this florist liked to recommend flowers based on who she felt people resembled.

So you asked.

“What flower do you think I resemble? I’d like that.”

She blinked, clearly surprised, especially since you were a stranger to her. She thought for a moment, glancing up briefly before looking away again.

“Would you like hellebore?” she asked softly, showing you a page in her catalog. “I think maroon would suit you.”

“It’s beautiful,” you replied quietly. Relief flickered across her face.

Then you added, “May I ask why you think it suits me?”

She hesitated, then answered more confidently than before.

“I feel like you’re going to experience renewal… a transition, perhaps.”

That made you chuckle softly, an oddly relieved sound.

You thanked her and paid. As she wrapped the bouquet carefully, she asked if you had a color preference.

“Purple,” you said. “If possible.”

She nodded, wrapping it neatly. Before handing it to you, she added one more strange flower. 

“This one…?” you asked.

“Columbine or Aquilegia,” she said with a small smile. “It will help balance your journey. I hope you’ll be well and blessed on your path.”

.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖

By the time you returned to your shop, it was already late.

You noticed a familiar figure sitting on the bench outside. As you approached, Sarah jumped up, her face lighting up.

“What are you doing here so late?” you asked.

“I got an email!” she nearly bounced. “They want to publish my book!”

She spoke with the excitement of a child showing off a drawing. You laughed and patted her head gently.

“Congratulations.”

You unlocked the door and let her in, turning on the lights. The space felt heavier than usual.

“That means I have to hurry with the cover design,” she said. “You’ll help me, right?”

You wished you could promise that.

Instead, you placed the bouquet on the counter. Her eyes immediately snapped to it.

“Oh? What’s the occasion?” she teased, scanning you then she noticed your black suit. “Wait! Were you on a date?!”

You shook your head lightly.

She kept talking about deadlines, worries, excitement, fear of messing things up. The sounds just blur in the back of your mind. 

“You’ll do fine, Sarah,” you said, gently reassuring her.

She continued describing her ideas, but your thoughts drifted. 

But you interrupted her words. 

“Sarah.”

Your voice was quiet, almost careful, as you turned toward the shelves and began laying out binding samples on the counter.

“Do you want to learn how to make these?”

.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖

To be honest, you had considered closing the store for quite some time.

You didn’t, not at first, because deep down, you felt guilty about letting it die with you. You once believed you could keep it alive, pass it down to your children, or to someone who would come after you. But for a long time, you never truly believed you would have a family, or even a bond deep enough to pass anything on.

As boredom and exhaustion seeped into your skin and bones, you slowly lost your reason to continue. The only thing keeping you there was your grandfather. As long as he was alive, you stayed. The work became a chain that held you in place, even though you had been the one who chose to inherit it.

And yes, you felt guilty.

In the hospital room, alone with him, the air thick with disinfectant and the wheezing sound of his breath, he told you he was proud of you. Whether you followed in his footsteps or not, he was proud. He said he was grateful that you had kept the store alive for as long as you did, and that it was enough. He wanted you to move on, to do what you truly wanted. Respecting his work was all he had ever asked for, nothing more.

So after the funeral, you decided to close the store.

Sarah, however, became a variable you never expected.

You had never imagined there would be someone genuinely interested in your work, interested enough for you to pass it on. But she was. Her passion, her youth, her earnest curiosity made you believe she could do far better than you ever had.

So you passed it to her.

Your final work was the cover of her first book.

.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖.☘︎ ݁˖

People wondered where you went after that. Even Sarah didn’t know.

But she believed that whatever path you chose, you had thought it through carefully, wherever you were, you would be happier than before.

She was right.

You never really planned to go anywhere. At first, you considered rotting away quietly in your room. But that night, the familiar figure with softly chiming bells appeared before you.

He made you an offer.

He promised to show you color, everything you had yearned to feel but never could. Whatever you wished to see, he would show you. And if, after all of it, you still felt nothing, still felt uninterested, he would grant you one final wish, the one you had carried for so long.

Death.

So you went with him.

Was it impulsive? No.

Because even if it hadn’t been Jester, if it had been anyone at all, you would have followed. Your life had been dark, gray, and suffocating for too long. And for the first time, there was color.

Even if it was painted in blood.