Where Clowns Kiss Kings

Ru's voice was a whisper, fragile as ash.

"Jazz?"

Jazz lay before him, a starkly different image: fallen yet perfect, like a timeless artwork abandoned in a crumbling gallery.

"Yes, that's me."

Jazz took a single step forward. The ash recoiled.

"When did you die?" Ru asked, gaze locked on the other Jazz—the one sprawled in the cinders, motionless as a stopped clock. A corpse that had waited years just to become a question. A paradox. A wound.

"That damn wraith from the quiz show must have killed me," Jazz said, closing the distance between them. But Ru didn't react—didn't see him. He only sensed him, a storm of desperation and sorrow brewing like thunder behind his sternum.

Jazz had all the answers Ru needed.

And now he was dead.

Ru dropped to his knees, hand outstretched—not to touch, but to test. To know.

He didn't need to make contact.

Just the nearness of his fingers sent a breeze through Jazz's soul, cool as rose petals drifting in twilight.