The town didn't feel real.
After days on the farm, the silence of the hills, and the heavy weight of home, the clatter and color of the
square struck Jack like a slap. The smells alone were overwhelming—smoke, yeast, manure, roasting nuts,
and sweat. He guided the cart through narrow streets lined with thatched shops and noisy children,
avoiding carts, dogs, and gossiping women with equal care.
He kept his head down and voice low. Transactions came quickly: the barley was weighed and paid for, the
hides inspected and accepted, and the vegetables bartered with a woman who threw in two onions "for the
poor boy's cheeks." Jack wasn't sure if it was pity or kindness. He didn't care.
He'd done what was asked of him. He could have turned the cart around and gone home.
But then he heard it: a faint trill of music, metallic and fast, curling around the edge of the square like
perfume.
He turned toward the sound.
Beyond the main market, tucked behind the mill and flanked by a few curious townsfolk, a crooked sign
swung from a pole just above eye-level.
"MORROW'S MARVELS – ONE NIGHT ONLY"
There were tents—striped red and white, worn at the seams but clean. Ropes tied to iron stakes. A ring of
canvas wagons. No green lights. No chanting. Just laughter, the clink of hammer on stake, and the
occasional toot of a tin whistle.
A mundane circus. Real. Rooted. Living. Jack stopped at the gate and watched.
A boy about his age juggled three clubs near the entrance. He stumbled on the third rotation but caught it
anyway, grinning like he'd won a prize. A pair of horses chewed hay nearby, calm and tired. A woman in a
paint-smeared apron touched up a sign that read "Fire Dancer at Dusk!"
Everything was… ordinary. And yet, Jack couldn't look away.
He felt warmth in his chest he hadn't felt since Thomas had died. A memory, maybe—of running barefoot
through fields, pretending to be a knight, shouting to invisible crowds.
He paid the entrance fee—just a coin and a nod—and stepped through.
Inside the perimeter, the air changed. Not magic. Just movement. People worked with practiced ease: rolling
barrels, tossing ropes, raising banners. A man with a long coat and sunburned cheeks directed workers with
a kind but firm voice.
Jack stood still, drinking it in.
"First time at a circus?"
The voice belonged to a girl a little older than him—maybe fifteen. She had short-cropped hair, streaked
with sawdust and sweat, and eyes that sparkled from the thrill of work, not mischief. She held a coil of rope
and a knife on her belt.
Jack nodded. "Yes."
"You look like you need it," she said, not unkindly.
He wasn't sure what that meant, but he smiled anyway.
She extended a hand. "I'm Rosy."
He took it. "Jack."
"You hungry, Jack?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well, we've got bread. Cheese. Roasted roots if Old Will didn't burn them again."
He followed her toward one of the wagons, uncertain why his legs moved so easily.
They ate sitting on crates. Someone passed by and tossed Rosy a plum. She split it and handed Jack half
without asking.