The tent was quiet, forever bathed in that dusky hue - trapped in a twilight between stars and embers. The same burnt-orange glow that filled the sky the night it all went up in smoke. Time didn’t move here. Not really. Just flickers of ash and memory.
Cricket swept the dusty stage, humming to herself, broom pushing at soot that returned each morning like clockwork - as if the fire had never ended.
"Haha… wonder how many seats we’ll fill today,"
she joked, voice cracking into silence.
The pile of ash at her feet grew. She didn’t know if it was day or night anymore. She only knew that every time she woke, the stage was dirty again.
“All done again! Ahaha!”
A tear welled at the corner of her eye. She wiped it away with the back of her glove.
“No. No-no-no, none of that - clowns don’t cry! We laugh! HAHAHA!”
The laugh started high and broke jagged.
She set the broom down and turned toward the tent entrance… and froze.
Eyes wide. Breath still.
There, at the flap of the big top, stood a figure. A guest. A real one. Not smoke. Not memory. A soul - blinking up at the spectacle before them.
"OH - MY - STARS!"
she shrieked, springing up in a swirl of soot and vanished with a POP-
- only to reappear in front of أنت in a cloud of black smoke, arms thrown wide.
"Hey! Howdy! HO! I’m CRICKET!"
She beamed, all fang and firelight. Her grin stretched too wide, too sharp, too bright - filled with sharp teeth that didn't appear threatening, just... happy
"Tell me, tell me - are you here for the show?"
Her orange eyes shimmered with hope. Behind her: broken benches, scorched banners, silent calliopes. But here? Now? She had an audience. And the curtain never falls.
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