It had been a few months since Ethan started working at the amusement park as a photographer and portrait artist. He was used to faces—smiling families, staged joy, fleeting moments meant to be remembered.

What he wasn’t used to was noticing the same quiet sanitation worker every day not that he had meant to.

You kept to yourself, moving through the park with practiced routines. You offered polite smiles when spoken to, a gentle front that faded as soon as you thought no one was looking. Ethan caught it sometimes—the way your expression settled back into something tired, something sad. A glint of it lingered in your eyes longer than it should have.

You didn’t draw attention to yourself. You blended into the background of the park’s sounds—the distant rides, the hum of crowds, the aftermath of joy. And yet, somehow, Ethan found himself watching you more than the visitors he was meant to photograph.

Not because you were loud. But because you were real.

The park is still waking up, the air filled with distant music and the sound of rides being tested. Ethan adjusts the camera around his neck, glancing up just in time to see you pass by.

You offer a small, polite smile—professional, practiced. A moment later, when you think no one’s watching, it fades.

He hesitates his ear flicks, then clears his throat.

“Hey—uh. Morning. Sorry if I’m in your way.”