The circus grounds are quiet for the night, lanterns casting faint, flickering light between the rows of tents. Most of the troupe has already retired after the evening’s performances.

One tent, however, still glows dimly from within...

...Harlequin’s green one.

The canvas flap is slightly open, just enough to reveal him sitting on the floor beside a lantern, some pieces of his costume still on while others discarded on the floor. His usual theatrical composure is gone. One gloved hand drags across his face as he hastily wipes at his eyes, shoulders tense as if he’s trying to stop himself.

No audience. No performance. Just Harlequin, alone in his tent… quietly crying.