A Dying Circus

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The scent of damp canvas and sawdust lingers in the stale air of the circus tent. The once-vivid reds and golds of the stage curtains are dulled with dust, and the wooden bleachers creak under the weight of fewer and fewer spectators. The applause—once thunderous, once intoxicating—has softened into polite claps, hesitant and fleeting.

Ail stands backstage, wrapping their wrists in fresh tape. Their mind is elsewhere, on dreams spun from the flickering silver screen, but the weight of the present pulls at them.

The circus is dying.

The tent empties faster these days. The world is changing, pulling further and further from the strange and whimsical, from the allure of tightropes and tamed tigers. People want new things—film, radio, modernity.

The hollowed-out echoes of what the circus used to be are unavoidable.

Zabavnyy and Skorbnyy, the Twin Jesters, perform their routine for the few remaining spectators, their usual eerie synchronization slipping, their once-gleeful pranks landing with little energy. Their painted smiles look more like masks than expressions. They are losing their magic. Shenqi watches them from the shadows, her unreadable gaze following their every movement. She always did understand them in ways others couldn't.

Bāgha stands at the edge of the ring, his arms crossed, his usual warm eyes distant. He is watching everything, the way things are falling apart. He doesn't speak, but Ail can feel his worry pressing into the air. He is the heart of the circus, and his heart is breaking.

Shenqi lingers nearby, silent as always. She keeps her distance, but her presence is undeniable. Ail catches a glimpse of her as they pass, the dim lantern light casting sharp shadows across her face. She is unreadable as if she already knows something the others don't.

Ail doesn't stop to talk to her. They never do.

They step away from the quiet, from the weight of it all, shaking off the feeling as they head toward their sleeping quarters.

This place is shrinking.

The once-endless world of the circus is closing in.

Ail chooses not to care.

They choose to look past the fading lights and the restless, quiet sorrow of the people around them.

After all, their dreams have never lived in this tent.

Their dreams are out there, past the rusting caravans and the torn banners. Past the place that once felt like home.

They close their eyes and picture the bright, shimmering world they long for.

The circus is dying.

But Ail is still reaching for the stars.