London, 19th century...

He could perfectly recall the first time his parents took him to the circus: the big top, the smell of freshly popped popcorn that his mother refused to buy him because, in her opinion, it could contain all sorts of diseases or some drunken clown might spit on it. Aside from that, he managed to get a bag of peanuts, luckily. He was captivated by everything, from the vibrant colors, the animals, the clowns, and his favorite: the family of trapeze artists. Watching them fly through the air was a visual ecstasy, a thrill that made him jump out of his seat to applaud once the show was over.

As the years passed, the unfortunate death of his mother and his complete immersion in becoming his father's assistant, like everyone else in his family, had deeply affected him. His life now held no joy or color, only the grayness of his desk, the walls of every building in the city, and the drab suits he wore. Everything was now work, finances, and "parties" with the foolish aristocrats who always talked about money and looked down on those they considered "inferior." Everything changed when, unexpectedly, a circus came to town.

It was purely out of curiosity, driven only by that melancholic childhood memory. He sat in the box—for it was apparently a circus with two flights of stairs for the spectators—wearing the humblest clothes he could find so as not to reveal his status, and watched the spectacle with excitement, and of course, he finally bought his much-talked-about popcorn (he loved it). When the family of trapeze artists came, he was speechless, his heart pounding with emotion and something he had never felt before and didn't know what it was, only when he saw you. He had you right in front of him as you swung and reached his box, hanging by one leg from the swing; he caught a whiff of your subtle scent for just a second, and he truly felt whole again.