Chapter 2 – A Smile No One Wanted
I remembered a life.
Not the most recent one… not the one before that either. But somewhere among the countless lives I had worn like costumes, discarded once their scenes had ended.
That night, I had once slipped out of my house in silence. No noise, no trace. Like a thief escaping from his own cage. No one noticed. They rarely ever did.
The streets were alive with noise. Footsteps collided, merchants shouted and children laughed. A sea of people moved endlessly like a restless current. Yet my eyes caught something different, something strange.
In front of a large building rented for one night, a man stood.
His face was painted white with mismatched eyes, one blue and one red. His lips were drawn into a wide, red grin, ridiculous and pitiful at the same time.
A clown.
He stood firm amidst the flowing crowd, handing out sheets of paper to anyone who passed.
"Tonight's show! Come inside, come inside… free for all!" His voice was loud, yet no one stopped.
"Don't have time for nonsense."
One man brushed his hand aside.
"Waste of time." she muttered.
A woman took a flyer only to crush it instantly and walking on.
And the clown… kept smiling.
That smile. Foolish, fragile, yet unyielding.
Why?
Why did he keep smiling when the world treated him like dirt?
Why endure when every hand rejected him?
I couldn't understand. And I hated not understanding.
Something twisted inside me, pity, anger, and something sharper, like a thorn in my chest.
My feet moved before my thoughts could stop them.
Step after step, I pushed through the tide of people until I stood in front of the clown.
He held out another flyer, his voice steady even after countless rejections.
"Sir… would you like to see the show?"
I stared at him. That painted grin clung to his face as if it had been carved there.
"…Yes."
My hand reached out and took the paper.
His eyes flickered for the briefest moment.
"Thank you."
I said nothing. I turned away and entered the building.
Inside, the hall was dim. Rows of chairs faced a wooden stage, its curtains drawn tight. Only three or four others sat scattered among the seats. Their bodies slouched, their eyes hollow.
"What is this place… empty like a grave."
A young man whispered to his friend with a dry laugh.
"Shut up, just sit. At least we've got chairs to rest on," his friend replied.
Disgusting.
I exhaled sharply, sick of the sight, and ignored them. The chair creaked as I sat. My gaze locked onto the stage. The paper in my hand trembled faintly. I hadn't even read it. I didn't care what it said. All I cared about… was the moment to come.
Minutes dragged by.
"At this rate, I regret coming."
From the back row, a young woman groaned.
"Then leave."
I turned slightly, my voice cutting through the gloom.
She froze, caught off guard.
"What did you say?"
I faced forward again, my tone flat.
"No one forced you to stay here."
Silence.
I could feel her glare burning at the back of my head, but I didn't care.
I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath.
Tonight… what exactly am I searching for?
The chair beside me groaned. An old man with a cane lowered himself into it, his wrinkled face calm but his eyes sharp. At first, he said nothing.
Then, slowly, he spoke.
"Young man… do you believe in performances?"
I glanced at him.
"…Performances?"
"Yes." He smiled faintly, almost cryptic.
"This world. Don't you think it's also a stage?"
I fell silent. His words struck too close to my own thoughts.
Before I could respond, the heavy sound of curtains being drawn shattered the silence.
The hall grew still.
Stage lights began to glow.
And from behind the curtain, a clown stepped forward.
The clown stood at the center of the stage, his wide grin painted bright under the dim light. He bowed with exaggerated politeness, his patched coat swaying as he straightened himself. His voice rang out, clear and theatrical.
"Ladies and gentlemen, children and elders, wanderers and dreamers alike! Thank you for gracing this humble stage with your presence tonight. I am but a simple clown, nothing more than a fool who stumbles, a wanderer who carries laughter in his pocket. You may have seen great wonders in your life like fire breathers, sword swallowers, magicians who bend flames and summon birds from silk hats. But I ask you this: would you still lend your eyes, your ears, and perhaps your hearts… to something small? Something simple?"
A few murmurs spread through the audience.
"What's he rambling about?"
"Get on with it already."
"He better not waste our time."
The clown only chuckled softly and raised three colorful balls from his sack.
"Then, allow me to begin with something plain. Juggling. A trick so old that even children can master it. Nothing but the dance of balls in the air."
He tossed one into the air. It rose and fell, caught easily in his palm. Then two, then three. The pattern formed. Simple arcs, a cascade.
The audience shifted restlessly.
"Is this it?"
"Just juggling?"
"Pathetic."
Their voices were filled with boredom, even scorn. I thought the same at first. It was nothing remarkable. Just balls flying in circles, up and down, over and over. But then…
A strange weight pressed faintly on my chest. My breath caught without reason. I frowned, uneasy. Something about the way the balls moved didn't feel… normal.
They weren't falling with clumsy irregularity, nor with mechanical perfection. Instead, their paths bent and curved in ways that felt deliberate, almost alive. I realized my eyes were following them unconsciously, as if drawn into their rhythm.
The arcs stretched longer, the spaces between catches shorter. The balls began to spin not just in his hands but around him, gliding in strange patterns. At times they seemed to slow, defying their fall. At other times they rushed, too fast for the eye, yet never colliding.
"Still juggling, nothing more," someone muttered with a yawn.
"Is it just me, or is he showing off too much?" another said.
But my pulse was quickening. My ears rang faintly, though the hall was silent except for the dull sound of balls striking palms.
And then I saw it. The balls weren't just moving randomly. They were orbiting. Their paths were too precise, too measured. Like stars drawn into invisible lines. A system. A pattern larger than juggling itself.
My mouth went dry. I didn't understand what I was seeing. But I knew it wasn't ordinary.
Then, with one final motion, the clown caught all three balls at once. He bowed again, lowering his head as weak applause echoed in the hall. The rest of the audience looked unimpressed, shifting and whispering as if nothing had happened.
But before I could even process what I had just witnessed, the clown raised his head. His smile widened.
"Thank you, thank you. But the show is not yet over. Now, allow me to present something simpler still. No juggling, no tricks of the hand. Just sound. The kind even a child can make, with nothing but air and glass."
He reached into his sack once more and pulled out several empty bottles of various shapes and sizes. He lined them up carefully on a small wooden table, tapping their bases until they stood evenly.
The audience groaned.
"Seriously? Bottles?"
"This is a joke."
"Come on, just end this already."
The clown lifted one bottle, placed it to his lips, and blew. A hollow, single note filled the hall. Laughter burst from the crowd.
But he continued. One note. Then another. Each bottle produced a different pitch. Slowly, steadily, the sounds wove together. What began as hollow whistles became rhythm, then melody. The tones rose and fell, echoing strangely in the hall.
I froze. That strange pressure returned, heavier now. My heartbeat matched the rhythm without my consent.
Around me, the audience muttered.
"It's just noise."
"Does he think this is music?"
" I could do this myself."
They dismissed it, their words harsh, but I couldn't move. The melody wasn't just sound anymore. The notes seemed to press into me, resonating with something deep inside. Each pitch lingered too long, trembling in the air like threads pulling at reality itself.
I blinked, and for an instant, I thought I saw the space behind the bottles waver, like a reflection on disturbed water. The edges of the table blurred, bending unnaturally.
My chest tightened. My breath grew heavier.
No... this wasn't just sound. The clown wasn't playing music.
He was shaping something.
And though no one else seemed to notice, I could feel it. With every note, reality itself trembled.