The Greatest Showman #1192 - Back in Time

"It should be like this..."

"...Current situation..."

"I think we need to hurry up..."

The back door of the Pioneer Village opened, and fragmented words leaked out. Steamy air rushed forth as a thin, tall figure hurried outside. She wore a navy-blue vertical striped shirt over a white base layer, paired with a dark pink woolen suit jacket—distinctly 1960s, but it complemented the bar behind her.

Suddenly, a rush of cold air flooded in, a clash between the warm inside air and the sharp chill from outside. The back door closed gently, silencing the alley, and all the noisy chatter outside was muffled. The sharp drop in temperature caused goosebumps to rise on the skin, prompting a quick adjustment of the jacket in search of warmth.

But then, Renly realized he'd forgotten to put on his jacket and had stepped outside in haste.

Turning back, he hesitated but chose not to return. The chaotic sounds of the night clashed against the silence of the alley, creating a peculiar depth. He looked up and followed the source of the noise.

At the alley's end, he saw a crowd, buzzing with excitement as people clicked their cameras. They chatted eagerly, but the line of people stretched endlessly, their faces turning into indistinct symbols against the night.

The alley's street lamps appeared abandoned, their neon lights tracing the skyline of the city. Even in the dark, the night was as bright as day. The light bounced off blue-gray building walls, casting long shadows that concealed figures and secrets in the alley's depth.

The hazy rain and fog gave the scene an apocalyptic grandeur, an eerie magnificence.

The more vibrant the crowd, the more solitary the scene felt.

Lowering his gaze, Renly recognized this familiar alley: the wet ground, dark red brick walls, discarded trash cans, rusted fire escapes, and piles of decaying metal in the corner. Time had flown by, but this corner seemed frozen in time. It looked the same as when he'd first started here, even the cobwebs on the large window across the way hadn't changed, still quivering in the cold wind with water droplets hanging from them.

The memories began to flood back, piece by piece, taking him back to his first days in New York.

So far, yet so close. So vague, yet so clear.

He pulled a cigarette from his case and placed it in his mouth. He leaned against the damp wall and instinctively reached for a match to light it. But just as he was about to strike the match, a cold draft from behind startled him. He shivered involuntarily, shrinking his neck, then jumping up as if to escape.

He glanced at his suit and wondered if it would affect the next performance. A slight frown crossed his face as he realized he had misjudged his position, making him shiver once more.

After a beat, he stood still, embarrassed by his actions. A faint, absurd smile curved at the corner of his mouth.

For a moment, he was reminded of his childhood.

In the world of aristocratic gentlemen, actions like trembling, shivering, and shrinking from the cold were absolutely forbidden. Only servants or working-class people were expected to react to the cold that way. The high society, with their elegant postures, would always stay in warm, spring-like environments.

Noblemen, even when outdoors, had to walk with their backs straight, shoulders squared, and composure intact.

Even if they felt the cold, they could only wear gloves, rubbing their hands together politely to warm themselves.

Not even George and Elizabeth would have allowed such behavior, and even Elf would have scolded him if she'd witnessed it.

Since leaving London for New York, Renly had not thought about those childhood memories in a long time. He hadn't thought of his family—Arthur and Edith—since the West End performances. Edith, sometimes, felt like a distant figure.

But now, those memories flooded back with such clarity it felt like he had just arrived in New York, had just left London, had just gained his freedom. He raised his head again, the familiar alley, the back door, the performance night—all these familiar details seemed to warp time and space.

It was as though he had traveled back to that winter, back to that moment in Pioneer Village, New York, so vividly it was impossible to distinguish the past from the present.

That winter, after finishing The Pacific War, Renly returned to New York exhausted from filming and vacation, seeking respite in the cold, damp air. He had spent some time in Australia after the series wrapped, learning to surf and relax in the sun. Returning to New York, he couldn't adjust to the biting cold and the dampness of the city.

During the filming of The Pacific War, Renly had tasted true joy in acting for the first time, reinforcing his commitment to his dream. His talent had been recognized, and he had made his first solid step toward a future full of possibilities, filled with both pride and excitement.

But as The Pacific War had yet to air, Renly couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and doubt, waiting for feedback from critics and audiences. Success was within reach, but still so far away.

He remained focused on his goals, stubbornly pushing forward despite his anxiety, hoping his talents would eventually find an audience.

At the same time, he watched his friends—those who had been auditioning and seeking opportunities with him—begin to find success, while he remained unsure of his own path.

He threw himself into perfecting his craft, immersing himself in his art, convinced he was on the right track. But doubts lingered, wondering if the pursuit of art and business would lead him into obscurity, a mere speck in the torrent of time.

Life, even in its second chance, was still full of unknowns.

It was during that winter that Renly Hall and Le Verne Davis crossed paths.

They were alike, both driven by talent, firm beliefs, and persistent dreams. Both stubbornly holding on to their ideals, waiting patiently for their moment to shine, even as internal conflicts brewed beneath the surface.

Renly had faced scrutiny, sometimes putting on airs while inwardly uncertain. He had refused commercial opportunities like Thor, dismissing them as distractions. Yet when the opportunity for Buried Alive came, he gave it his all, though he questioned whether he was truly deserving of the role.

Le Verne's story mirrored his own: the same struggles, the same contradictions, the same aspirations.

And the crowd outside the Pioneer Village, bustling at the gates, was oblivious to it all. They might have heard of "Renly Hall" or "Le Verne Davis," but to them, they were just names in the wind. What mattered was their own enjoyment of the night, a night that had nothing to do with Renly or Le Verne.

And yet, their stories were entwined, their paths inevitably crossing in the great, chaotic world.