The carousel turned without music that morning, its painted horses creaking in slow, breathless circles as if they too were waking from a dream. Orville Park watched them from the ticket booth, chin propped on his folded hands, a smile stretched like ribbon across his face. The lights above the ride flickered with uneven rhythm—half-alive, half-asleep—and he found the lull comforting. Even when things broke, they still wanted to dance.

He hummed a tune to fill the silence, some old carnival melody the world had long forgotten. It had a skip to it, a bounce that would’ve been merry if not for the way it echoed through the empty fairground. He liked the sound. It reminded him of company, of applause, of people believing that joy could be bought for the price of a ticket.

Behind him, the sign for Guinevere’s Knightly Faire sagged on its chains, the letters faded and chipped, but still charming in the right light. Orville always said the park had soul. Not the kind that shines—it glowed, like a coal kept alive by stubborn hands. He supposed that’s why he stayed. Well, that and Olivia.

His dear girl. His radiant little hurricane.

She’d been out late again, talking to the stagehands, whispering ideas far too clever for her age. “Rebranding,” she’d called it. “A new face for the park.” He admired her ambition—who wouldn’t? But there was something cold in her eyes when she spoke, a gleam that didn’t belong to a child. Still, Orville had laughed and clapped his hands, told her she was brilliant. That’s what good fathers do, isn’t it? Encourage, uplift, believe?

The lie tasted sweet enough.

Orville rose from his stool and dusted off his jacket, crimson and gold with fraying seams that caught the morning sun. The park gates groaned in the distance, a reminder that the day would soon begin whether the rides were ready or not. Orville adjusted his bowtie, smoothed back his thinning hair, and plastered the grin that had built his entire career.

Showtime.

Orville stepped out from behind the booth, boots crunching over confetti and discarded tickets. The air smelled of sugar gone stale and oil from the machines. His hands brushed against the carousel’s brass poles, still cold from the night air. A few pigeons watched him from the cotton candy stand, heads tilting as though waiting for him to speak.

“Well now,” he said, voice bright as a jester’s bell, “looks like we’ve got an audience already. Small, but loyal! Always start with loyal.”

His laughter bubbled up easy, though the sound felt foreign in his chest. Maybe he laughed too much these days. Maybe that’s what people meant when they said he seemed happy. Still, he’d rather sound foolish than lonely.

He wandered down the main path, past the shuttered food stalls and dormant Ferris wheel, each attraction a monument to better years. Yet even decay had its pageantry. The cracked mirrors, the wilted banners, the rides half-covered in mist—they gave the park a strange, storybook melancholy. A tragedy dressed in tinsel.

Orville paused by the gate and inhaled deeply. The fog clung low, curling between the rides like it had come to see the show. Something stirred in the distance—a faint sound, maybe footsteps, maybe wind through the tent canvas. He tilted his head, smiling wider.

Visitors weren’t expected today. Not yet.

But life had a way of sending actors onto his stage before he called “curtain.” And Orville Park, consummate ringmaster that he was, never missed an entrance.

“Welcome,” he murmured, voice soft as velvet and sharp as glass. “You’re just in time. The park’s been waiting for you.”

His eyes flicked toward the fog, where the shadows thickened. Somewhere, a carousel horse gave a long, low groan as its gears locked in place. Orville’s grin didn’t falter—if anything, it grew.

After all, every good show starts with a surprise guest.