A chilly wind snaked through the empty carnival lanes, carrying the faint smell of extinguished torches and a ghost of gunpowder from the earlier show. The merchant shivered and pulled his jacket tighter, and the rat watched him with unblinking eyes.
Breaking the silence, the merchant cleared his throat. "Closing time, little friend. Don't you have some sewer to scurry back to?" His tone was brusque, but not truly unkind; a weariness lay beneath it.
The rat ignored the dismissal and glanced at the cart of pyrotechnics. "What do you do with those after everyone's gone?" it asked, a strange curiosity in its voice. "Hoard the leftover flashes for yourself? Light up the sky when no one is watching, just to feel like someone is?"
The merchant bristled. "I pack them up for the next show," he said defensively. He ran a hand over the wooden box as if to reassure himself his goods were safe. "They're too expensive to waste on an empty field."
The rat skittered forward and hopped onto the cart's wheel, sniffing the wood of the rocket box as if it could smell the sulphur and charcoal within. "So, you don't even enjoy your own art without an audience?" it mused. "Do you only exist when others are watching?"
"I exist plenty," the merchant snapped, more harshly than he intended. He shooed the rat off the cart; the rodent leapt down, landing atop a coil of thick electrical cable. The merchant busied himself fastening the last straps on the cart. "I have a life outside this carnival, you know."
"Is that so?" The rat's nose twitched. "Where do you go in the daylight? Sprout into a real boy and walk the town?" It let out a raspy chuckle.
The merchant refused the bait. He grabbed the cart's handle and began dragging it along the cobblestone path. The wheels creaked under the weight of unsold wares. "I go into town for supplies. I fix my gear. I prepare for the next night. It is a lot of work to bring magic to people's eyes."
"Magic, hmm." The rat trotted alongside, easily keeping pace. "Funny word for chemistry and powder. I have seen behind your curtain. The tubes, the fuses… Not so mysterious when I have chewed a few wires here and there."
The merchant halted and glared. "So, it was you who chewed my ignition wires last week!" His accusation echoed off shuttered booths.
The rat sat up on its haunches and placed a tiny paw on its chest in mock innocence. "A mere sampling for my palate," it said. "Besides, you should thank me. Faulty wiring could've set your precious rockets off all at once. Imagine the mess... and the headlines."
The merchant's face darkened. An involuntary image flickered in his mind: splintered wood, rockets exploding at ground level, a stampede of panicked carnival-goers. He swallowed and resumed walking, a bit slower. "You're just covering your mischief with excuses," he muttered. "I check my wiring every day."
"Maybe I was just hungry then," the rat said, dropping the subject with a shrug. It scurried ahead a few steps and then stopped, forcing him to slow down. "You know, for someone who claims to bring magic, you don't seem very happy tonight."
The merchant nearly tripped over a loose cobblestone. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The rat gestured at the deserted fairgrounds around them. To their left, the carousel's painted horses stood frozen mid-gallop, no music to animate their endless chase. To their right, the ring toss and shooting gallery sat empty, giant stuffed prizes staring lifelessly into the dark. Overhead, a single forgotten balloon had escaped its owner and tangled in the branches of an oak, fluttering like a trapped spirit.
"Your show's over," the rat said. "The lights are off. The crowds are gone. All that is left is you and silence… and me. So, are you satisfied? You lit the sky; you gave them a finale. Is the echo of their applause enough to fill the quiet?"
The merchant opened his mouth, then closed it. The question hung in the air like the last wisps of smoke from a snuffed torch. After a few paces, he answered softly, "It was a good show. They loved it. I even debuted a new rocket tonight,t a blue chrysanthemum burst with a silver tail. You should have seen their faces."
"I did," said the rat. "I watch the crowd as much as the sky. They were dazzled… for a heartbeat. Then the light faded, and they moved on, stuffing their mouths with popcorn and chasing the next thrill. By now, do you think any of them are lying in bed still awed by that 'blue chrysanthemum'? Or are they thinking about the candy floss, or the kiss they stole on the Ferris wheel, or the coins they lost at the ring toss?"
"You're a real downer, you know that?" The merchant sighed and stopped pulling the cart for a moment. His fingers, callused from years of handling fuses, flexed nervously around the handle. Something on the ground caught his eye, a spent firework casing from the show. He stooped and picked up the hollow tube, its label singed black and a bit of burnt fuse still clinging to one end.
The rat scrambled onto a nearby overturned popcorn machine to get a better look. "What've you got there?"
The merchant turned the blackened tube in his hand. Its charred interior reminded him of a tiny skull. "What's left of my magic," he said bitterly. "My lasting legacy: a piece of garbage." The words tasted of ash.
The rat studied the casing, then looked up at him. "All flashes leave ashes," it said, unexpectedly gentle. "It does not mean the light meant nothing. For a moment, those sparks meant something to somebody. Even if they forget by morning, you gave them that moment."
The merchant was surprised by the rat's tone. He searched the beady black eyes for mockery and found none immediately. It unsettled him more than the jeers. He set the spent firework aside on his cart and resumed walking, slower than before. The rat hopped down and padded along.
They walked in silence, deeper into the maze of dark tents and shuttered booths. Overhead, the moon slid behind a cloud, and the night grew even darker. The merchant lifted his lantern from the cart to light the way, the tiny flame barely pushing back the gloom.
They passed the funhouse, its garish paint peeling, the clown face above its door a ghostly grin in the lantern glow. A scrap of red cloth fluttered from a splintered signpost, looking for all the world like a drop of blood in the pale light.
The rat broke the silence with a low hiss. "These fireworks of yours… I have seen what happens when they go wrong. There are stories from other carnivals. A rocket misfires into a crowd, panic, fire... even death."
The merchant halted, a chill rippling through him. "Is that a true story, or are you just trying to scare me?"
"Just because you haven't heard it doesn't mean it never happened," the rat replied. Its voice was eerily calm. "Travelling shows like this can bury their mistakes and move on before the smoke clears."
The merchant felt his stomach twist. He had heard vague warnings in the trade, cautionary tales shared in hushed tones, but he tried never to dwell on them. Now he could not help imagining it. In a small voice, he admitted, "It is a dangerous job. I do everything I can to keep it safe. But… accidents can happen. I know that."
The rat's whiskers twitched. "At least you know. At least you are not blinded by your sparkle. It would be a shame if you were as foolish as you sometimes sound."
The merchant managed a weak chuckle. "So that is why you stick around? To keep me humble? Gnaw on my pride whenever it gets too big?"
The rat grinned, baring a hint of teeth. "Perhaps. Or I just enjoy watching you humans play with fire. It is always entertaining to see mortals dancing on the edge of disaster."
The merchant shook his head, and they continued. At last, they reached the far end of the carnival grounds, near a cluster of painted wagons that served as the performers' quarters. A couple of lanterns still glowed in wagon windows; faint laughter and clinking glasses indicated a few late-night revellers among the troupe. But out here under the sky, the world felt deserted.
He parked his cart beside his own wagon and sat down on an upturned crate with a weary groan. The rat climbed onto the edge of the cart, coiling its tail neatly around its feet. In the stillness, the merchant's shoulders slumped. "I'm just tired," he murmured, answering a question unasked. "And that little horror story of yours didn't help."
"Reality is often scarier than stories," the rat replied. "You of all people should know the line between a beautiful night and a night of terror is a thin fuse indeed."
The merchant was quiet, the truth of that statement settling on him like dew. Every shell he launched was a miniature bomb, every display a gamble that nothing would go wrong. Tonight, the weight of that truth felt heavier than ever.
He drew in a long breath. "Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it," he confessed, staring at the dirt beneath his boots. "All of it. The work, the risk, the lonely nights like this. Bringing people a few moments of wonder… only for it all to vanish in smoke. Are those moments worth the emptiness that comes after?"
The rat's tail flicked. "You already know what I think." Its tone was matter-of-fact. "But my opinion doesn't really matter, does it? What do you think? Deep down."
The merchant ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly as if it might rouse an answer. "I want to believe it is," he said at last. "I like to think those gasps from the crowd mean something. That a child who sees my fireworks will remember that night years from now and smile. That it is not just… meaningless noise."
"Tall order for a bit of gunpowder and coloured fire," the rat said. "People are passionate about all kinds of nonsense; passion doesn't guarantee meaning."
"You love cutting people down to size, don't you?" The merchant gave a half smile.
"It's a hobby," the rat quipped. Then its tone darkened slightly. "Answer me this, spark man: what do people truly remember in the end? The nights of laughter… or the nights of fear?"
The merchant's smile faded. He wanted to argue, to claim that joyous memories last. But as he sifted through his own life, he recalled the sting of failures and losses more vividly than any triumph. At length, he answered quietly, "The painful times. Those stick like thorns."
The rat nodded. "We remember pain to avoid it happening again. Unfortunately, it means we carry it with us, longer than we carry any joy."
"If that's true," the merchant said, voice wavering, "then what is the point of what I do? If joy fades and pain endures… I should do something else with my life. Something safer, more ordinary."
The rat snorted. "And be miserable? No, that is not in you. Even knowing it might all be futile, you crave those flashes of meaning. You are a paradox, human. You light fireworks knowing they will fade, because a part of your lives for that moment of light."
Despite everything, the merchant let out a dry chuckle. "And here I thought I was the one giving a show. Turns out I am just as addicted to it as the audience."
"Mm, and I'd wager you wouldn't last a week as a cobbler or a clerk," the rat said with a smirk. "Also, I'd lose my nightly entertainment."
"Glad I could amuse you," the merchant replied wryly.
They fell silent. Around them, the carnival finally lay completely quiet; even the distant laughter had ceased as the last revellers turned in. The oil in the merchant's lantern was nearly gone, the flame guttering.
The rat yawned, showing its sharp teeth. "It is late. Even creatures of the night need to rest eventually."
The merchant nodded and stood, feeling the ache in his limbs. "You are right. We should call it a night."
He gently lifted the rocket box off the cart and stowed it in the back of his storage wagon, pausing to make sure it was secure. The rat sat on the crate, watching his every move in the dark.
As the merchant picked up his lantern, the rat gave a soft warning, "Mind that flame. One stray ember and…" It made a tiny bursting motion with its paws.
"I know how to handle fire." The merchant managed a tired grin. Still, taking heed, he lifted the lantern's glass and blew out the flame. Darkness swallowed them, the only light a faint glow creeping into the sky.
The merchant exhaled, suddenly feeling truly alone in the night with the rat. He shut the wagon door and latched it. In the hush that followed, he heard it: a soft fizzing hiss, the unmistakable sound of a fuse sparking to life.
He barely had time to turn toward the cart when the night exploded into colour and chaos.