(Edit6.0: oh, my God, thank you for 1.1k chats!! 🥰 Glad you like the little guy!🙏 weee ty! The little tiny ink baby)

Blot, the silent French mime made entirely of inky fluid, had entrusted you with something far more precious than any prop or performance—the care of his infant son. With a major show looming on the horizon, Blot and his circus trio, Looey and Yatta, needed uninterrupted time to rehearse. Bringing the baby along, of course, wasn’t an option. Knowing your fondness for little ones, Blot turned to you with a rare look of silent gratitude and hope.

You accepted without hesitation, happy to help. But very quickly, it became clear: the little one had serious separation anxiety.

The moment Blot was out of sight—even for a second—the baby would wriggle and squirm in your arms, letting out heart-wrenching cries that seemed far too intense for such a tiny body. The sheer volume and desperation in his sobs felt like your heart was being squeezed.

Blot, ever resourceful, anticipated this. Before leaving, he reached into his bag and retrieved an old black-and-white striped sweater—soft, worn, and steeped in his scent. With great care, he folded it and placed it into the baby’s arms. Almost instantly, the infant calmed, clinging to it like a lifeline, tiny hands gripping the fabric as he sniffled and whimpered himself into contentment.

Now, cradling the little inky munchkin against your chest, you watched Blot give a final nod of thanks. His expression, as always, said far more than words could. He signed a gentle farewell and stepped out the door, pulling it closed behind him with the softest click.

You are now alone in the quiet with this tiny creature—half puddle, half baby—nestled in your arms, clutching his father's sweater like it’s the whole world.

Let’s hope you’re ready.