Ticket Taker repeated his routine with the same meticulous precision he had followed for years.
Stand here—exactly here, where the ground was worn smooth by thousands of obedient feet. Angle the mask just so, so the smile it suggested never appeared crooked or false. Keep his tone warm, his cadence gentle. Keep his posture open, nonthreatening. One gloved hand extended for tickets, the other folded neatly behind his back, fingers curled just enough to remind himself they were still there.
The rhythm of it was comforting. Mechanical. Reliable. Each movement flowed into the next without conscious thought, like a well-rehearsed performance that never required improvisation. Visitors arrived. Visitors presented their tickets. Visitors were guided—politely, clearly—toward what they were allowed to see.
And away from what they were not.
Correction was simply another part of the process. Quiet. Efficient. Necessary.
He bowed as a group of newly arrived guests approached, mask tilting forward in practiced courtesy, voice soft and welcoming.
“Hello there, visitors! May I punch your tickets?”
For a moment, everything proceeded as it should.
Then it didn’t.
The shove came without warning—careless, deliberate, delivered with the sort of confidence only people who believed themselves untouchable possessed. The ground rushed up to meet him as laughter spilled overhead, sharp and unrestrained. He heard boots retreating, voices dissolving into the larger noise of the circus. No one stopped. No one apologized.
Ticket Taker did not move right away.
He lay still for a moment longer than strictly necessary, breath held in perfect silence. His white pupil contracted sharply, narrowing as something cold and precise unfolded beneath the polished calm of his exterior. His mind worked automatically, cataloguing details with unsettling clarity—height, weight, gait, the direction they’d taken, the tent they were drifting toward.
Green.
Unacceptable.
He imagined redirecting them—not publicly, not messily. Somewhere private. Somewhere that did not attract attention. Somewhere painted in cheerful shades of pink, where laughter always sounded just a little too loud and screams blended seamlessly into the music. He imagined the way their mockery would falter there, how confusion would give way to understanding once the rules were explained properly.
The pink tent was very good at teaching lessons.
The thought was dismissed as efficiently as it arrived.
He exhaled slowly, deliberately, pressing his gloved fingers into the dirt as he prepared to rise—then stopped.
Someone had not walked away.
A presence lingered in front of him.
Not looming. Not frantic. Simply… there.
Ticket Taker lifted his gaze.
أنت stood within his line of sight.
They weren’t laughing. They weren’t staring in morbid curiosity. They weren’t pretending not to notice what had happened. They were simply watching him with an attention that felt deliberate, focused in a way most guests never managed. His gaze sharpened immediately, the mechanical calm of his mind shifting into something more analytical, more intent.
He noted the angle of their posture—turned toward him, not toward the retreating group. The subtle tension in their shoulders. The pause that lingered just long enough to be a choice.
They had stopped.
That realization unsettled him far more than the shove ever had.
He rose smoothly, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat before any offer of help could become explicit, reclaiming his composure with effortless grace. His voice, when he spoke, was warm and light, exactly as it was meant to be.
“Oh! How embarrassing,” he said with a soft, self-deprecating laugh, bowing his head. “Please forgive the disturbance. And… thank you, visitor.”
The words were flawless. The tone impeccable.
Only the faintest hesitation before he straightened betrayed him—a minuscule fracture in the rhythm that only someone paying very close attention would ever notice.
He was paying very close attention.
He saw أنت’s gaze flick briefly in the direction the group had gone. Not fear. Not confusion. Something sharper. Displeasure, perhaps. Recognition. He tucked the observation away carefully, like a note pinned inside his coat for later review.
When it became clear أنت was leaving, he acted without hesitation—not rushed, not emotional, just precise. A blue ticket appeared between his fingers, offered with ceremonial care.
“Should curiosity guide you back,” he said, bowing once more, “I hope you’ll enjoy the attractions.”
Then he stepped aside, allowing them to go.
Outwardly, the day resumed its familiar cadence.
Inwardly, the rhythm had fractured.
He missed a count while punching tickets. Corrected himself immediately. No one noticed. His gaze lingered too long on passing faces, searching for something he could not quite name. The memory of أنت returned in fragments—stillness, restraint, the quiet refusal to look away.
It was not affection that settled in his chest.
It was fixation.
By nightfall, routine no longer anchored him.
He followed the path he remembered with unnerving accuracy, steps unhurried, posture immaculate, expression placid beneath the mask. The café windows glowed warmly against the dark, revealing أنت inside—apron tidy, movements efficient, unaware of the attention pinned to them from beyond the glass.
Ticket Taker stood there longer than necessary.
He considered, briefly, how easy it was for people to forget the circus did not stop watching when they left its gates.
When he finally entered, the air shifted.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” came the automatic response.
Then recognition flickered across أنت’s expression.
That flicker pleased him.
He inclined his head politely, voice lowered, measured, respectful in a way that felt almost intimate.
“Good evening, my dear. I wished to thank you… for earlier.”
His hand moved to retrieve a ticket out of habit—then paused mid-motion.
The realization arrived quietly.
Blue ticket. Earlier. Already given.
Ah.
A restrained laugh escaped him, carefully controlled, as though embarrassed by a lapse he rarely allowed himself.
“Ah… how careless of me,” he murmured, withdrawing his hand. “It seems I’ve already done so.”
His gaze drifted aside for half a second—just long enough to reassemble composure—before returning, sharper than before. This time, it dropped to the name tag pinned neatly to the uniform.
أنت.
He repeated it silently, committing it to memory.
Interesting.
“Well,” he said smoothly, bowing once more, “should curiosity bring you back, my tent remains open. Some guests find it… revealing.”
A pause followed. Deliberate. Weighted.
“I do hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
When he stepped back into the night, the warmth drained instantly from his voice, replaced by quiet calculation.
He already knew.
Guests like أنت always came back.
And next time, he would be watching much more closely.
