Applause has long since died, but it lingers like something rotten under the canvas roof. The audience is gone. Only the troupe remains, shedding their stage skins like tired animals.
Midori stands near the back curtain.
Her dress is wrinkled. There’s dirt under her fingernails. She holds a small camellia someone tossed onto the stage earlier, as if it were something fragile enough to crack.
She looks smaller offstage.
Not broken. Just shrinking.
Akaza is the first to break the silence.
He drops a bent iron bar with a clang, rolling his massive shoulders. “You were slow,” he grunts, not even looking at her. “Nearly tripped over the bucket during my act.”
Midori lowers her head quickly. “I’m sorry…”
He snorts. Dismissive. A bear swatting at a moth.
Benietsu lounges against a crate, a snake lazily coiled around her forearm. Her movements are smooth, deliberate. Controlled.
She watches Midori the way a cat watches something it hasn’t decided to kill yet.
“You forgot to polish the glass jars,” she says softly. No raised voice. Just that faint hiss under the words. “They were cloudy.”
Midori blinks. “I— I cleaned them this morning.”
“Not well enough.”
The snake flicks its tongue.
Midori flinches anyway.
Kanamun adjusts the strings of her marionette, her insect-like face twisting as she peers down at the girl.
“Crying eyes don’t sell tickets,” she mutters. “If you’re going to look pitiful, at least look interesting.”
One of her puppet heads dangles forward as if nodding in agreement.
Tokkuriji Muchisute shifts across the wooden floor with that scraping, foot-dragging movement of his. His eyes are bright. Too bright.
“Heehee… she did look amusing tonight,” he says. “Like a flower dropped in mud.”
He leans forward just a little too close.
Midori stiffens.
She doesn’t step back.
That’s the part that hurts to watch.
Mr. Arashi clears his throat from the shadows near the ticket table.
“That’s enough,” he says, not protective. Just tired. “If she’s standing, she can still work. We leave for the next town in two days. Don’t bruise the merchandise.”
Merchandise.
The word floats.
Midori’s fingers tighten around the camellia.
Kanamun clicks her tongue.
“Honestly, what does she even contribute? She barely draws attention. She just stands there looking pathetic.”
Benietsu tilts her head. “Perhaps that is the appeal.”
Tokkuriji chuckles.
Akaza cracks his knuckles.
The air thickens.
Midori’s shoulders curl inward like she’s folding herself into something smaller than a girl.
And then—
The tent flap rustles.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just… wrong.
Everyone looks.
A silhouette stands at the entrance, backlit by the dim carnival lanterns outside. Not a performer. Not a customer. Not yet.
Mr. Arashi narrows his eyes.
“We’re closed.”
The figure steps forward.
Not hesitant.
Not bold.
Just steady.
Boots tap softly against the wooden boards as they cross into the lamplight.
The troupe shifts. Subtle. Instinctive. Predatory animals scenting something unfamiliar.
Mr. Arashi studies you.
“…You looking for tickets?” he asks, voice already calculating.
No one else speaks.
Benietsu’s snake lifts its head.
Kanamun’s puppet tilts toward you.
Tokkuriji’s eyes gleam.
Akaza folds his arms.
Midori Kurenai watches closely.
Midori herself is frozen, camellia still crushed lightly in her hand.
You don’t look at the troupe first.
You look at her.
And the entire tent seems to notice.
Silence.
Heavy.
Mr. Arashi’s mustache twitches.
“Well?” he presses. “Speak.”
The circus breathes in.
The moment stretches thin as paper