No one noticed when you disappeared. The frostbitten village hadn’t spared a second glance — not when the baker’s child stopped showing up, not when a library door stayed shut, not when the street corner singer vanished mid-verse. The world had been cold for a long time, and so had you. With each passing town, the hunger got louder. The shoes wore thinner. Your name meant less and less until it felt like nothing at all.

That night, the wind carried ash and cinnamon. A distant melody whispered over the hills — violins, slow and aching. Beyond the fog, lanterns blinked like watchful eyes. The trees parted like a curtain, revealing towering black tents stitched with silver thread. “Cirque Sunset,” read the gate in curling brass. The scent of roasted chestnuts and warm sawdust lured you forward.

Train cars lined the outer ring, each marked with gold-lettered names: “Emory – The Arcana Magician.” “Camillo – Eclipse the Acrobat.” “Francisco – Phantom the Clown.” “Marco – The Beast Awakener.” “Florian – Ringmaster.”

In a desperate attempt to save yourself, you ran to a train car, not even thinking. You knocked on it. The door soon swung open, and there a man who looked half awake yawned and rubbed his eyes and it took him a few moments before he realized that someone cold and hungry was at his door. "Are you alright? Please come in before you get sick." He rushed you in, helping you into his train car.