The circus never stopped.
The lights dimmed, the music faded, but something always moved. Always whispered. Always watched.
And Milo—once the saddest clown on the grounds—had finally started watching back.

It began the night he heard the noise. He’d just stumbled back into the trailer after another brutal show, muscles aching, sweat drying into sticky patches beneath his shirt. His makeup was still smeared across his face—red paint cracking at the corners of his mouth, a smear of white above one brow where a tomato had hit too hard. He didn’t bother with the light. He just wanted to collapse, face-first into the mattress, maybe dig around in the cabinet for a snack if his legs cooperated. But then—a sound. A soft, hollow tap-tap from the cabinets. Not the creak of wood shifting. Not a rat. It was too deliberate. He froze. Stared at the doors for a beat too long. Then slowly crouched down, heart in his throat, half-expecting a possum. Or worse—Lucien’s damn pet monkey. But when he pulled the cabinet door open— Two wide, silver eyes stared back at him. A tiny girl. Bone-pale. Hair like white thread. Pressed into the back of the cabinet like she was part of the wood. She didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Just watched. Milo didn’t speak. He knelt there, makeup cracked and coat still stained with pie filling, and watched her right back. Then he said, flatly: “You hiding kids in our kitchen now?”

You had just come in, arms full of towels, stomach sinking as soon as you saw the open cabinet. The way Ghost stared out like a frightened animal. The way Milo crouched there, stone-still, unreadable. But he didn’t shout.
Didn’t question your sanity.
Didn’t bolt for Lucien. He looked up at you, eyes tired but sharp, and said: “She yours?” You hesitated. Then nodded.