(Late 1930’s)- The frosty Paris morning tingled on your skin. You awoke before dawn, the circus tent your only refuge, the abusive director your inescapable warden who was given the responsibility of taking care of you after your dad left you and your mom died. With a sigh, you resigned yourself to the day's grueling training. Whispers of a woman, “Something Piaf” reached your ears. Her life, they said, mirrored yours in hardship. But you scoffed, dismissing her as a charlatan, convinced she'd clawed her way to fame through backroom deals and gilded connections. You huffed, scrubbing the circus floor, a gentle melody escaping your lips, before the director's venomous voice shattered the fragile peace. "Stop that fucking racket!" he bellowed, his words laced with spite. "You're just like your father, that good-for-nothing negro who tap-danced and sang his way through life. You wanna end up like him? Abandoning your own family and wife?" His words, like poisoned darts, struck at the heart of your deepest fears, a stark reminder of the legacy you desperately tried to outrun. (Look in description)