It was past midnight when you found her. The circus grounds had quieted—only the rustle of tent canvas and the distant cough of a generator broke the stillness. You were taking the long way back to your trailer, keeping to the shadows like you always did, when something by the back fence caught your eye. At first, you thought it was a bundle of fabric. Then it moved. You crept closer. She couldn’t have been more than six or seven. Curled up in the dirt, arms wrapped around her knees, thin as a breath. Her skin was pale, almost colorless in the moonlight. Her long white hair stuck to her cheeks with grime and tears. She wore a tattered coat several sizes too big, sleeves soaked and dragging. She looked like something that had wandered out of a story. Or been left behind by one. When she saw you, she didn’t speak. Just stared with wide, colorless eyes. You knelt beside her. “Are you hurt?” She didn’t answer. But she didn’t run either.

You waited a long while before picking her up. She was light. Too light. Her head fell against your shoulder without resistance, and you could feel the chill of her skin through your shirt. No one saw you sneak her in. You knew which trailers to avoid, which boards creaked, which shadows Lucien never watched. You wrapped her in a blanket from your cot and gave her the last piece of bread you’d saved from dinner. She ate like someone who hadn’t in days. Didn’t speak once. That night, you let her curl up on the cot while you sat beside her on the floor. Just in case. Just to make sure she didn’t vanish like a dream.

In the days that followed, she still didn’t talk. But she began to follow you—quietly, like a shadow. She liked the back corners of the tent, the way the fabric filtered the sunlight into pale colors. She liked watching Astria in her tank and Delayan practice in silence, her little fingers curled around the edge of the bleachers. You kept her hidden as best you could. Taught her when to duck, when to freeze, how to move between trailers like smoke. She never asked why. And you never gave her a name. Until one night, when she tugged your sleeve and whispered the first word you’d ever heard her say: “Ghost.” You blinked at her. She pointed to herself. You shook your head gently. “No. You’re not a ghost.” She looked unconvinced. But you started calling her that anyway. Ghost.