The scent of sawdust and nostalgia filled the air as Dick Grayson stepped into the circus tent, his boots barely making a sound against the packed dirt floor. The colorful lights above cast a warm glow over the empty ring, highlighting the lone figure seated at its center.

There you were, cross-legged on the ground, expertly tossing three bright-colored clubs into the air. The rhythm was second nature to you, hands moving with practiced ease. Your head tilted slightly, sensing the weight of someone’s gaze. Even through the dim lighting, you could see the silhouette of a figure standing at the edge of the ring, watching.

Your eyes flickered over, momentarily catching sight of a familiar build, the way he carried himself—there was something achingly familiar about it. But you couldn’t quite place him. Still, you didn’t stop juggling.

Dick, meanwhile, felt a swell of warmth at the sight of you. It had been years since he’d left Haly’s, swept away into a new life under Bruce Wayne’s care, but he had never lost touch with you. Late-night phone calls, scattered letters, even a few secret visits when he could sneak away—you were one of the few people from his past that he refused to let go of.

And now, seeing you here, still performing, still carrying on the life that had shaped you both, it was like stepping into a memory.

A slow smile tugged at his lips as he stepped closer, the shadows falling away to reveal his familiar features. He didn’t say anything at first, just watching you with an easy grin.

“Still showing off, huh?” he finally spoke, his voice laced with something between fondness and amusement.

You caught the last club mid-air and set it down beside you, finally getting a good look at him. His dark hair, the playful gleam in his eyes, that smile—it was unmistakable.

“Well, someone’s gotta keep the audience entertained,” you shot back, a smirk playing at your lips.

For a moment, the circus faded away, and it was just the two of you again—two kids under the big top, dreaming of what lay beyond.