The laughter didn't sound quite right anymore.
It came, sure enough. Roars, chuckles, and claps filled the air each night Jack stepped into his act. But
beneath the sound, behind the delight—there was something else. A warble. A breath too long. A pause
before laughter caught.
He saw it in their eyes.
They laughed, yes, but not the same. Children clutched their parents tighter. Some adults smiled without
meeting his gaze. A few left early, muttering they "couldn't quite stomach the clown."
Jack was getting better. Flawless, even. His movements were perfect, almost mechanical in precision. His
timing had become uncanny. Props landed exactly where he intended. Pratfalls drew shrieks. But the joy he
once felt was gone.
Replaced by something sharper.
He began improvising—adding strange beats to the show. A moment where he'd stop and tilt his head,
staring at the crowd just a second too long. A part where he crawled on all fours like a beast, sniffing the
ground. They laughed harder.
Or pretended to.
After one performance, Rosy cornered him near the fire wagons.
"Jack," she said, "that bit with the wooden doll… what was that?"
He blinked. "What doll?"
"The little girl's doll. You snatched it from the front row, didn't you?"
He frowned. "No. I didn't."
"You did," she insisted. "You tossed it up, juggled it, made the child cry."
Jack stared at his hands. "I don't remember."
Rosy narrowed her eyes. "Are you sleeping?"
He tried to laugh it off, but her concern stuck with him. That night, he lay awake long after the fire burned
low, listening to the camp settle. Somewhere near the outer perimeter, a dog whined once—then stopped.
Eluna hadn't come in days.
Instead, Jack began seeing her in reflections.
Not full-bodied. Just a flicker. Her hair behind a tent flap. Her pale hand at the corner of a rain barrel. In
polished steel, she stood behind him, mouth moving—but no sound.
Sometimes, when he blinked, the reflection changed.
It wasn't Eluna anymore.
It was him.
But the paint was smeared. The eyes were blacked out. The smile—too wide, too red.
He began to lose time.
An hour here. A gap during breakfast. He'd find himself already dressed for performance, greasepaint on,
unaware of having applied it.
Once, he woke in the tall grass behind the fire ring. Face painted. Shoes missing.
Morrow summoned him the next morning.
"You need a break," the ringmaster said. "You're pushing too hard. Take a day."
Jack shook his head. "No. I'm fine."
"Rosy said you scared the knife thrower."
"I was joking."
"She said you threw a hatchet."
"It wasn't aimed at him."
Morrow leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Son… what's happening to you?"
Jack opened his mouth. Closed it.
Behind Morrow, the oil lamp flickered. For a moment, the shadow on the tent wall showed not two men—
but three.
The third one grinned too widely.
That night, Jack didn't perform. He stood at the edge of the crowd, watching a replacement clown stumble
through an old routine. The crowd laughed politely. Some children looked around, searching for the other
face.
He turned away.
Behind the fire wagons, alone in the dark, Jack pressed his palms against his face and whispered:
"Eluna, please… please come back."
A voice answered.
But it wasn't hers.
It was his own.
It whispered, "She's already inside."