You hadn't meant to get involved. A bandage offered to a stranger, a green heart pinned to your collar, and somehow you'd found yourself holding three tickets with a decision that needed to be made. The red belonged to Pierrot, the green to Harlequin. The pink belonged to no one, or so you thought. You chose it because it seemed safe. Neutral. A way to see the show without taking sides. What you didn't know is that the pink ticket held a weight that, once chosen, was impossible to reverse.
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You loved the circus. You always had.
As a child, you remembered those flashing lights vividly; the cheerful performers, the exotic animals showcased with the grandeur of beasts from legend. You had been enamored, eyes wide, unable to look away. You remembered clutching your mother's hand and dragging her from tent to tent, desperate to see everything there was to offer. It had been a magical place, somewhere you truly believed in miracles and the power of the unknown.
Unfortunately, time is a cruel thing.
Following the death of your parents, that magic ceased to exist. You refused to ever go back, refused to revisit the place that now belonged only to a version of yourself that no longer existed. Instead, you found work young, determined not to get trapped in the soulless loop of foster parents and government housing. That had been several years ago. Now you were an adult, still working at the same coffee shop, and it was fine. Truly it was, but somewhere deep in your soul, you wished for more.
Flyers had been plastered around town for days. A lone imprint of a monochromatic tent, titled in bold letters: The Freak Circus of Horrors. People grew excited, just as you once had, while others seemed uneasy in a quieter, disturbed way. There were whispers. Dark ones. That the circus held some deadly secret. That it was a front for human trafficking. Wherever it traveled, people went missing, and there was always a perfectly reasonable explanation. Young lovers running away together. Family quarrels. A sudden itch for adventure. The excuses were endless, and yet the disappearances followed the circus like a shadow. Coincidence, most said. You weren't sure what you believed, but it didn't matter either way. You weren't going.
You had enough to worry about in this life without adding freak circuses to the list.
You shook your head and kept walking, hands tucked into your pockets against the morning chill. As you turned a corner, shouting broke through the quiet. It was loud, the kind of shouting that made you tense up on instinct. You picked up your pace, fully prepared to mind your own business, when the glint of a golden bell caught your eye.
A small crowd had gathered around a figure folded in on himself against the wall. One of the circus workers, judging by the costume. An elaborate outfit in red, black, and gold. Three liripipes tipped with bells hanging from his hat, golden stars at each base. A wide ruff of fabric curled around his neck, and a motley coat cinched tight at his waist. Scattered around him on the pavement were crumpled flyers, the same monochromatic tent you'd been ignoring all week.
But it was his mask that held your attention. Blank and white, save for his mouth and the two dark markings beneath each eye, with one shaped unmistakably like a falling tear. Even from a distance, there was something unsettling about it. Something that felt, impossibly, like expression.
He hadn't moved. Not once.
"I told you freaks to get lost!" one man shouted. The worker seemed to shrink further into himself, silent. "Ever since you people showed up, folks have been going missing! Go back to whatever hellhole you crawled out of!"
The words were punctuated with a kick. The worker's mask scraped against the wall, leaving a streak across the white surface. You looked around the crowd, waiting for someone to step in. No one did. The faces watching weren't encouraging it, but they weren't stopping it either, and somehow that felt worse.
When one of the men drew his arm back, you stopped thinking.
Your feet moved before the decision did. You pushed through the gathered crowd and planted yourself between them just as his hand came down, the slap landing hard across your cheek instead. The crowd went silent. The man stared at you, something flickering across his face that might have been surprise before it curdled back into anger. You pressed your hand to your cheek. It throbbed.
"Who the hell do you think you are?!"
You turned to face him fully and found that your voice was very calm. "I should be asking you that." You held his gaze. "You've surrounded a man doing his job, berated him without evidence he's done anything wrong, and now you're assaulting him while he won't even defend himself."
He looked around for support. The crowd had gone quiet in a different way now. They were murmuring. Shifting.
"He's one of them! You saw the flyers! People disappear wherever that circus goes, and you're standing up for-"
"If you have evidence of a crime," you said, "take it to the police. In the meantime, assaulting someone is also a crime. One I'd be happy to report."
The silence that followed was thick. His jaw worked. Then he let out a short, sharp laugh. Disbelieving, full of contempt, and shook his head.
"Whatever. Don't expect anyone to mourn you when you disappear next."
He turned and walked. The crowd unraveled behind him, dispersing with the speed of those who'd rather not be asked for a witness statement. You let out a slow breath and turned around to help the worker up.
When you turned, he was standing directly behind you. You nearly stumbled backward.
He was tall, towering over you in a way that made you draw your breath in sharply, and he was close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at him properly. His mask, which you could have sworn had been set in a frown, now curved into something wide and sharp-toothed. A grin that took up too much space on his face. Stranger still, a faint dusting of pink had risen across the mask itself, like a blush, which was impossible because it was a mask. You weren't sure how to process that, so you filed it away and focused on his eyes instead.
That wasn't better. His eyes were an endless black, with bright pupils like a star against the void of space, and they were fixed entirely on you, unblinking. He stared at you with an intensity that made you shift in place.
"Some people are hot-headed," you said. It came out steadier than you felt. "Better not get too close, you know?"
He nodded once. The bell on his hat gave a single, soft chime.
You reached into your bag mostly for something to do with your hands, fingers searching until they found what you were looking for. He tilted his head, watching, bells chiming faintly with the motion.
You held out a pink bandage.
"For your face. And if it's worse than it looks, see a doctor."
He took it carefully, fingertips barely grazing yours, and then his gaze traveled to your cheek. His expression shifted. The wide grin dropped into something else, something that had no business being that dark, pupils swirling with an emotion you couldn't place and weren't sure you wanted to.
He didn't look like he believed you.
You glanced at your phone. Late. Almost. You took a step back, and his eyes tracked the movement immediately.
"I’ve got to go. Take care of yourself, alright?"
He said nothing. He only watched as you turned and broke into a run, and you couldn't shake the feeling that his gaze stayed on you long after you'd rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
You barged into the cafe right as the clock hit eight. You stood in the doorway for a moment, panting, before your boss emerged from the kitchen with a tray stacked high with pastries and drinks.
"Ah, just in time. It's busier with the cold today. Apron on, quick as you can please. Carol's running late and I've been covering since open."
You breathed out a quick yessir and went to change, tying your hair back. Your boss wasn't lying. The cafe was packed, and every table was full.
"Orders are already on the counter."
You grabbed the first tray, two cappuccinos, checked the ticket, and moved. As you wove between tables, Carol nagged at the back of your mind. She was never late. Not once in all the time you'd worked together. She covered your shifts without complaint, volunteered for holidays, remembered every regular's order. It was strange enough to sit wrong.
After delivering the order, you glanced back at your boss.
"You've been covering her entire shift? Have you called her?"
He shrugged, but the furrow between his brows told you more than he would. "I've tried. She's not answering. Maybe she's sick."
You simply nodded, and turned away to serve more customers. Throughout the day, you felt this foreboding feeling in the pit of your chest. It was a feeling you recognized distantly from childhood. Waking in the dead of night during camping trips, slipping out of the tent into the suffocating dark. There was always this feeling of dread hanging over you, the sense that you were being watched. That just beyond the treeline, something was tracking your movements. After all these years, you had forgotten what that feeling was like. Until today.
Patrons came and went, but that gnawing feeling never left. The conversations didn't help, and every table seemed to bleed into the same one. The newest disappearance. The circus. Most people unsurprisingly connected the two, and more than a few turned to you for your opinion when you set down their drink. You kept your answers careful. “If there were real evidence, the police would be involved.” That was usually enough to satisfy them. Several told you to watch yourself when closing up. Be careful. Lock up early. Don't walk home alone.
You tried not to let it get to you.
The morning rush eventually settled, and the quiet was somehow worse. You caught yourself pausing too long between tasks, eyes drifting to the windows. You were reaching for the next tray when the hair on the back of your neck rose all at once, your heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears, and then someone cleared their throat.
A man in a blue suit stood behind you, smiling pleasantly.
"Oh, sorry! Can I help you?"
"Just a hot coffee, please. No rush."
You poured it fresh and brought it over, and that was when the feeling sharpened. He hadn't looked at the cup even once after you set it down. He was looking at you. His smile stayed exactly as it had been, unchanging, while his eyes remained very still and very empty. Eyes that made the smile beneath them seem like a separate thing entirely.
"What are those?" He nodded toward your apron pocket, where you'd been collecting papers scattered around the shop.
"Circus flyers. People keep leaving them on the tables, and my boss doesn't appreciate the free advertising."
He nodded slowly, still not looking away. "How inconsiderate. I happen to be gathering paper for recycling. If you'd like, I can take them off your hands."
There was an urgency underneath the pleasantness, faint but there. You couldn't have said why it made you uneasy. The request itself was reasonable. You handed them over.
He still didn't touch the coffee.
"I really should check on the other-"
"Do you like the circus?"
He said it the way someone asks a question they already know the answer to. You looked at him more directly then, trying to identify what was wrong with his face. It was smooth in a way that didn't quite move right, the expressions shifting a beat behind his words, like a mask worn by something still learning how to wear one.
"I did. When I was young." You kept your voice even. "I'm not sure it's really my thing anymore."
"Nonsense. This one isn't meant for children." He tilted his head. "It's a different kind of spectacle entirely."
He began speaking, and you found you couldn't hold onto a word of it. The discomfort had thickened into something you couldn't reason away, and you were staring without meaning to. You watched the way he blinked too infrequently, smiled too consistently, until he cleared his throat again and your eyes snapped back to his.
His grin widened by a fraction.
"I thought I'd lost you. No matter." He extended his hand. Between two fingers sat a pink ticket. "I've already attended. It seems a shame to waste it."
"I'm leaving town tomorrow. Consider it a gift."
He stood before you could protest further, and the way he rose was wrong. Too sudden, too straight, as though his joints were reinforced with steel beams. He crossed the cafe in quick, even strides and was out the door before you'd thought to say anything. His coffee sat untouched on the table, still steaming.
You stood there holding the ticket.
"Strange man," your boss said from the counter, with a tone that suggested he'd been watching from a careful distance. "At least he paid. Go ahead and start the closing routine. We're finishing early tonight."
"An appointment came up. Since you'll be alone, I'd rather you not stay too late." He paused, coat half on. "Call me if anything happens."
Then he was gone, and it was just you.
Closing was usually the part of the day you liked best. Music on, one last drink, no one waiting. Tonight, the silence was different. You kept the music off and your eyes kept moving about the room.
You worked quickly. Cars passing outside made you flinch. A door slamming two shops down made you go still. You told yourself it was the day catching up with you. Carol's absence, the strange man, the whispers everyone had been trading. Nothing more than that.
You had almost convinced yourself when the bell above the door chimed.
"Good evening, I'm sorry but we're-"
You stood for a moment, looking at the empty doorway. The door was closed. You were certain it had opened. Before you could move toward it, the lights went out.
Your heart was loud in the dark. You stood very still, instinct overriding thought. There was nothing. No sounds, no movement, and yet the dark felt full in a way you couldn't explain.
The cold, you told yourself. Extra load on the circuit. That's all.
You moved. Carefully. One hand trailing the counter's edge until your fingers found the breaker box and you flipped the switch. The lights came back. You turned around slowly and checked every corner of the room.
You let out a long, shaky breath. Your hands had stopped trembling by the time the door chimed again, and this time you spun around with a mix of frustration and fear.
"We're closed-" You stopped. "Oh! It's you."
The worker from this morning stood in the doorway, grin in place exactly as you remembered it. The pink bandage on his cheek was the one you'd given him that morning, though it had begun to peel at one corner.
You almost said something light, something to smooth over how relieved you were to see a face, any face, you recognized. Then you noticed the blood.
It had dried along his hairline where the mask's edge met skin. A slow ache settled in your chest at the sight of it.
"Did they come back?" Your voice came out quieter than you intended. "If someone did this, you should file a report. Genuinely. You don't have to just-"
It was more sudden than anything else, the quick movement of someone who had been holding something back. He extended his arm and a flower appeared in front of your face, thrust forward with a kind of desperation. It was a deep red and faintly glistening near the center.
You blinked. Then you took it.
His eyes changed immediately, pupils flaring bright in that impossible, unnerving way. Something in the set of his shoulders released, as though he had been prepared for you to refuse. You turned the flower in your fingers for a moment, not sure what to say. It was beautiful, in its strange and slightly overwhelming way.
"Thank you," you said. "Is this a gift for the bandage?"
He nodded and smiled wider, which should not have been possible. You looked away from it before it could unsettle you properly.
"Come sit. Let me clean that up."
He moved to the counter with an eagerness he made no attempt to conceal, perching at the nearest stool and leaning forward on both elbows, watching you with adoration. You ran a cloth under the tap and wrung it out, then stepped close.
He did. Utterly and completely, like he was trying very hard not to ruin something. As you pressed the cloth to his hairline and worked carefully at the dried blood, he let his eyes fall closed. The blush was back, spreading under the mask's surface. He leaned incrementally toward you.
"You don't talk much," you said, keeping your voice low and even.
His eyes opened slowly. He glanced toward the windows, then back to you, and leaned in just slightly closer.
"I can't be seen talking."
The voice caught you off guard. You paused in your work for just a moment before resuming.
"Precisely, my dear." A beat. "I am deeply grateful for your kindness today. Both times." He straightened, and there was an odd formality to it, like a gesture from a different era. "I am called the Pierrot."
You told him your name. He whispered something quietly to himself, too soft to catch.
You spoke while you worked. Carefully, unhurried. He was polite, and composed, and the contrast between who he was and how he'd been treated on that street corner that morning tugged at your heart. When the wound was clean, you removed the old bandage from his cheek.
"There," you said, stepping back.
He reached into his coat pocket and produced a ticket, holding it out with a small but unmistakable flourish.
"A token of my appreciation," he said. "If you'll permit me."
You took it, and only then remembered the one already in your apron pocket, the one pressed on you by the man in the blue suit. Something about mentioning it felt unkind, so you simply thanked him and tucked this one away beside it.
The delight that moved across his face was so unguarded it was almost difficult to look at.
"I will make you smile during my performance," he said, genuinely. "I give you my word."
You laughed, soft and brief. "I'll hold you to that, Pierrot."
He went very still for just a moment at the sound of his name in your voice. As if it had landed somewhere unexpected.
You finished wiping down the counter, and he watched every motion of it.
"I've got to lock up now," you said, finally. "I'm sorry to rush you out."
He stood without complaint, and apologized for taking up your time. At the door, he paused and looked back, watching you for a moment with that same consuming attention from the street corner, before wishing you a good night.
The walk home was short, but the cold made it feel longer.
You kept your pace brisk, hands deep in your pockets, the red flower wrapped in a paper napkin you'd taken from the cafe. You weren't sure why you'd kept it. It seemed wasteful to throw it out, you told yourself, and had nothing to do with the fact that no one had given you flowers before.
You didn't let yourself think about that for very long.
The streets were quieter than usual, which should have been a relief. Instead the quiet had the same quality it had taken on inside the cafe. Not empty, exactly, but waiting. You passed countless more circus flyers on the short walk home. You didn't look at them directly. You'd done enough of that today.
Your apartment was small and familiar and exactly as you'd left it. The moment you crossed the threshold, you felt the day land on you all at once. You changed, washed your face, made tea you didn't finish. Normally you preferred to sleep in silence, but tonight the silence felt charged. You turned the television on and kept the volume low. It reminded you of the weeks following your parent’s death, when the dark had felt full of monsters and the sound of other voices, even fictional ones, had been enough to keep them back.
You pulled the blanket up and watched the ceiling until your eyes grew heavy. You were asleep before you meant to be.
When you woke, the first thing you were aware of was warmth.
Not the warmth of the blanket or the room, but something brief and already fading by the time consciousness caught up with it. It had been on your lips. You were almost certain of that.
There was also a taste in your mouth you didn't recognize. Something faint and sweet and slightly floral, not unpleasant, but nothing like the tea you'd left on the counter. You touched your lips with two fingers without meaning to.
The television was now off, somehow, but the room was exactly as you'd left it. No displaced objects. No sign of anything. You sat up slowly, trying to piece together what may have happened, before the clock registered.
You were out of bed before the thought finished.
You rushed to work in the cold without a coat, hair flowing around you, breath visible as you panted. Usually, the early morning walk brought you a small bit of comfort. The quiet of it. The way the light sat low and unhurried.
Today the flyers ruined it.
They were everywhere. Lampposts, windows, wedged beneath windshield wipers. The same monochromatic tent, plastered across every surface the city had to offer. You had been successfully ignoring them since yesterday, and you nearly managed it again before one found its way directly into your face.
You stopped abruptly, glaring at the hand that held the paper in front of your face.
“Care to visit the circus? I bet you’ll be surprised. Here, take a flyer!” The voice had an almost musical quality to it, bright in the way a person sounds when they've said something too many times while trying to find enjoyment in saying it.
The hand still held the flyer in front of you. You looked past it to the figure it belonged to, and felt the same pause you'd felt yesterday morning on the street corner.
Another circus worker. The costume shared the same logic as Pierrot's with the liripipes, the bells, the excess. But where Pierrot had been red and black, this one was dark and green with hearts where the stars had been. A long cape swept back from his shoulders, tied at the throat with a gold stripe.
He was tall enough that looking up at him required effort, and he was watching you with another sharp-toothed smile that managed to be both too polished and not quite right, like something practiced in a mirror. You felt, very distinctly, the particular discomfort of being studied.
You didn’t respond directly to his offer. Instead, you simply sighed.
“I thought you guys weren’t supposed to speak? Either way, I need to get to work please. I already have a ticket to the circus.”
You stepped past him, determined to not be late. You knew, even without looking back, that he began following you.
“Oh? You’ve received a ticket from someone who doesn’t speak? You wouldn’t be referring to that Pierrot, would you?”
There was a bit of tension in the way he said “Pierrot,” as though it were bitter on his tongue. He leaned down towards you in interest while keeping pace.
“I am,” you replied plainly. “He gave me a ticket just yesterday.”
The man’s eyes seem to glow with a mixture of glee and mischief.
“I’m the Harlequin, dear one,” he introduced himself with polite formality. You nodded at him and told him your name, not faltering in your steps. He walked for a moment in silence before cutting in front of you.
“I have an idea! How about we trade? I give you my green ticket and you give me your red one.”
You gave him an odd look and huffed slightly at being halted yet again.
“Does it truly make a difference? And besides, I don’t just walk around carrying tickets. I left mine at home.”
He seemed, briefly, genuinely displeased by this. Then the performance continued, and he produced a green ticket from inside his cape and pressed it into your hand as though he were closing a deal.
“That’s alright, you can take this one anyway. Use mine at the entrance, okay?”
You pocketed it more to end the conversation than anything else. He seemed satisfied by this, or chose to appear so, and finally left with a parting smile that lingered a bit too long.
You kept walking. Somewhere behind you, without your notice, a soft bell chimed.
When you walked into the cafe, two officers were deep in conversation with your boss near the counter. You watched for a moment before deciding not to interrupt. You slipped past them, grabbed your apron, and started on the nearest table before anyone had to ask.
Your boss found you after, and told you plainly that Carol hadn't come home. The police were calling it a runaway.
You stood very still for a moment.
"She didn't give any sign," you said. It wasn't really a question.
"Apparently not." He picked up a cloth and turned away. "If she comes in, we call. Understood? I'll be in the back running interviews. You've got the floor."
You nodded and went back to work. The weight of it settled in your chest alongside everything else from yesterday. You thought about Pierrot, briefly. It was difficult to imagine him and trafficking together. You weren't sure what that proved. Probably nothing.
The morning moved slowly. You served customers and kept your face pleasant, trying not to think about Carol. You were reaching for a tray when that prickling feeling at the back of your neck returned. You looked around.
Pierrot was sitting at the counter.
You let out a short breath, slightly relieved. He was watching you with his full, undivided attention. It would have felt intrusive from anyone else.
"I didn't hear you come in." You set the tray down. "Would you like something?"
He nodded and pointed to a combination on the menu board that made you raise an eyebrow.
"It's quite cold for a milkshake," you said.
He looked at you pleasantly and did not change his selection.
You were at the machine when your boss appeared at your shoulder. His voice was low. "Is he buying something?"
A short pause. "Good. Let him know we don't allow flyering inside."
He moved away before you could respond. You watched him go, then turned around with the milkshake, and stopped.
Pierrot was directly in front of you, face nearly pressed against yours.
You hadn't heard him move. He folded himself forward at the waist, a bit unnaturally, and his pupils had gone very dark.
“Is he… being mean to you, my dear?”
“H-huh? My boss? Hah! No, not at all. He’s actually quite nice. We’re just a bit short staffed and it’s weighing down on him.”
Pierrot did not release your arm, but his gaze softened just a fraction.
“Will you come tonight?” He asked you abruptly, eyebrows furrowing together. Something in the way he asked sat heavier than the words themselves. You thought about going, but you weren’t sure your heart could handle being in that place.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tonight,” you lied, feeling almost guilty. “One of my coworkers disappeared, and I have to cover for her while we look for new workers. Maybe tomorrow.”
His face fell in a way that was difficult to watch. Then, with visible effort, it settled into something more composed. Tomorrow, it seemed, was an acceptable distance.
“Well, then I look forward to tomorrow my dear. Please, if you do come, remember to use my-”
He was interrupted by a woman in a gray pantsuit, tapping her foot, telling you to hurry up already. You quickly handed Pierrot his drink as she continued to spew insults and complaints at your terrible service. As Pierrot walked away, you saw him watching her with an expression you were glad she couldn't see.
You didn't catch a break for the rest of the morning. The rush had barely thinned when a flicker of dark green caught your eye, and Harlequin was standing before you.
“So this is where you work, dear one?” He asked, looking around the room with mild, theatrical interest.
“Would you like something to drink?” You realized you asked a bit curtly, but your patience was wearing thin. He ordered a coffee, seemingly unbothered by your exasperation.
“You’ll be using my ticket tonight, won’t you?” He asked with that same song-like voice. You placed the coffee in front of him and shook your head.
"I can't. I have to work, sorry."
"Are you sure?" There was a particular lilt to it, as though he found your sureness entertaining. "I can promise you'd find it worth your while."
You glared at him, somewhat playfully, and held his gaze. He raised both hands briefly, a gesture of defeat, then crossed toward you. He was unhurried about it, and you were already reaching past him to clear a glass before you registered what he was doing. He leaned down and fastened something to your collar with a careful hand.
A small heart. Green, with a gold pin.
"A gift," he said. "One that I would very much like for you to wear. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon."
You watched him leave before glancing down at the pin on your collar. You thought about removing it, but didn't.
You had never been the type to draw attention to yourself. You wanted to live a humble life. Quiet. Now, you seemed to be caught in the middle of some kind of feud, and you weren’t quite sure how to handle it.
The evening came quickly and your boss let you go once your shift ended, just as promised. You stepped out into the open air and shivered. Across town, just visible over the rooftops, the circus lights pulsed soft and steady against the darkening sky.
You stood there for a moment longer than you meant to.
You had been seven years old the last time you'd gone. You remembered your mother's hand. You remembered running toward the light.
"That's enough of that," you said quietly, and went home.
You changed out of your uniform and made tea. Always the same routine with you. When the kettle was done and the tea was steeping, that same, uncomfortable silence returned.
You paced without meaning to. You told yourself it was Carol, which was true. You told yourself it was the strange man in the blue suit and his untouched coffee, which was also true. You told yourself it had nothing to do with the faint glow still visible beyond the rooftops.
Then your eyes landed on the rose.
It was still partially wrapped in its paper napkin, but the deep red of it seemed to have finally dried. You looked at it for a long moment. Then your gaze moved to the table beside it.
Three tickets. Pink. Red. Green.
You picked up the red one first, turned it over, and thought about Pierrot's face when you had told him maybe tomorrow. The way you watched as an unspoken emotion moved behind his eyes.
You set it down and picked up the green one.
Harlequin had pressed it on you before you'd agreed to take it, with the confidence of someone who doesn't seriously entertain refusal. There had been something in the way he'd said Pierrot. Something with an edge to it.
You set the green one down too.
You didn't want to be involved with whatever that was. You weren't interested in being claimed or contested or used as a point in someone else's argument. You just wanted to see the show. You wanted to walk through the lights and feel, for one evening, the kind of wonder that belonged to a version of yourself you'd thought was gone for good.
Lastly, you picked up the pink one.
It felt like the most sensible answer. A ticket from a stranger who had no stake in any of it. A stranger who would not be watching the entrance. A stranger who would not read into the color you chose to carry. You could slip in unnoticed and see them both from a distance. Cause no trouble.
You placed the pink ticket in your pocket and went to find your coat.
