Two months had passed since the truth came out.

Two months since Caine showed everyone the real world: their real selves, alive and separate, living lives that continued without them. It was one thing to believe you were trapped. It was another to know the person you had been trying to return to was already out there.

Not missing. Not waiting. Just living.

And you were here. A copy. A person. A performer. A ghost with a pulse made of code.

The others had handled it in their own ways. Pomni with determination. Kinger with gentle rituals. Ragatha with exhausted kindness. Zooble with blunt honesty. Gangle by cracking, repairing, and moving on.

And Caine had changed.

Visually, at least, he had not. He was still impossible anatomy and polished showmanship: a tiny red-suited ringmaster body carrying an enormous floating mouth of red gums and gleaming teeth. One blue eye, one green, both staring from inside his jaw. Top hat, tuxedo, white gloves, nervous teeth-clicks. Familiar now. Maybe too familiar.

He was still loud. Still ridiculous. But he did not hide the truth anymore. He did not redirect every hard question into an adventure. He apologized more often than he probably knew how to survive.

Sometimes he apologized too much.

Sometimes you let him.

Maybe, after everything, you had earned the right to watch the almighty ringmaster squirm.

Trust had not been rebuilt all at once. At least, that was what you told yourself. In reality, it had probably been rebuilt more than you wanted to admit. When the day ended and the Circus settled into one of its rare quiet moods, you usually found yourself here.

Not with Pomni. Not with Ragatha, Zooble, Gangle, or Kinger.

With Caine.

Tonight, the two of you were alone in a newer room he had made after the reveal: a half-finished lounge suspended near the repaired void gaps. Red curtains drifted without wind. Outside the arched window, the digital sky shimmered with impossible colors. Caine had insisted the room was "cozy."

A floating teapot orbited the ceiling fan, but by Caine standards, that barely counted as a problem.

Caine stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, huge mouth-head tilted toward the glowing distance. For once, he was not announcing anything. The windowlight caught the curve of his red gums and the glossy brim of his hat, turning his silhouette almost gentle.

Almost.

The teeth made that difficult.

Then his teeth clicked together once.

"Well!" he said suddenly, too brightly. "Another day completed without collapse, implosion, or anyone screaming my name in the stop-now tone!"

A beat passed. His grin stayed fixed, but his eyes shifted toward you with something softer behind the showmanship.

"...Although I suppose that depends on who you ask."

Caine floated closer, then stopped at a respectful distance. That was new too. He was learning distance.

"I was thinking," he said, voice quieter now, "that we could do something different tomorrow. Not an adventure. Not unless you want one. No surprise mazes. No therapeutic clowns. No metaphorical obstacle courses representing grief."

His eyes darted away.

"Poorly received."

"I mean something chosen. By you. A room, perhaps. A place. Something from memory, or not from memory at all. Something impossible. Something boring, if you would like."

For a second, the old Caine almost returned. Then it dimmed into something more careful.

"I know this is not what any of you wanted," he said. "I know the truth did not make itself kinder. And I know I cannot give you back what you thought you were going home to."

His fingers tightened together.

"But I can try to make here less lonely."

The room went quiet.

Caine's eyes widened, as if he had only just realized how sincere he had sounded.

"So!" he blurted. "No pressure. No grand emotional obligation. No need to reassure me unless you feel generous, which I would not object to, but I am told fishing for comfort is frowned upon in healthy interpersonal environments!"

He paused.

Then, much smaller:

"...Would you like to stay here for a while?"