Fairground Fog
It started with lights—blinking, swirling, dazzling in fractured patterns. Mia stood near the entrance to the fairground, her journal clutched tight to her chest. Crowds pressed in on all sides: laughing children, couples brushing hands, vendors shouting prices over the crackle of oil.
Her breath came short.
A calliope trilled overhead, sharp and looping. She turned toward the sound and blinked.
She didn't know which direction she had come from.
The crowd moved around her like water around a stone.
A child brushed past her hip. Someone called out a name—not hers. She turned anyway. Lights flashed. A woman laughed near the funnel cake stand.
Mia's grip on the journal tightened. She flipped it open.
No ink.
Only a smudge. Her name—half written—trailing off.
A cold bead of sweat trickled down her spine.
Her other hand reached into her coat, touching the familiar weight of a pen.
Reassurance.
But temporary.
She spun slowly in place. Cotton candy. Tilt-a-whirl. Prize booths. She recognized them individually, but together, they blurred into noise.
Where was Sarah?
The question jolted her.
She turned again. Every step felt misaligned. Her boots scuffed the gravel as she staggered past a mirrored stall, catching her own reflection—pale, wide-eyed, unmoored.
The glass distorted her posture. Her outline wavered.
A man offered her a balloon. Red. Tethered.
She didn't answer.
She reached into her pocket. A pen. She scrawled a word on the edge of the journal.
Anchor.
She circled it. Twice.
She sat on the edge of a low wall near the carousel.
Carousel. Memory: Sarah wanted to ride it. Age nine. Refused the pony. Picked the wolf.
She wrote it down.
The panic eased, barely.
The carousel turned slowly, its mechanical sighs steadying.
She looked up. The lights dimmed slightly—maybe just her vision adjusting.
Then, from the corner of her eye, a flash of paper.
She turned.
A torn journal page.
Not hers.
Different ink. Different shape.
She picked it up.
"You left this here once."
No signature.
But her hands shook.
The wind shifted.
She stood. The noise around her became clearer. Laughter. Sizzling. Footsteps.
She walked toward the Ferris wheel, slower now. Focused.
People passed her. A girl with pink hair. A boy carrying a goldfish in a bag.
She saw the corner of the fair where Sarah had once sat with her uncle. She remembered the lemonade. The sun.
It wasn't gone.
Just fogged.
She stopped by the ring toss booth. Wrote in the journal again.
Memory blur: Level 3.
Then added:
Protocol: Withdraw to quiet. Recalibrate.
Her breath steadied.
She glanced toward the information tent. Too noisy. Too central.
Instead, she headed for the perimeter.
Behind the portable restrooms, beside a chain-link fence, was a patch of unmowed grass. Quiet. Slightly muddy.
She sat.
Took off one glove. Pressed her palm into the dirt.
Closed her eyes.
Let the smell of fried dough and engine oil fall away.
Recalled:
Sarah at the shooting gallery, winning a plush dog she later gave away. Mia pretending she hadn't helped fix the sights.
Sarah once said she hated cotton candy. "It tastes like static," she said.
Mia smiled.
Wrote that down.
Her fingers stopped shaking.
She stood.
Retraced her steps.
This time, the lights didn't pulse as hard.
She passed the popcorn cart. The man with the balloons.
A girl's voice called "Mia!" from behind her.
She didn't look back.
Not yet.
But her hand tightened around the journal.
A second voice followed.
Lower.
"I found you."
She turned.
Sarah stood a few feet away, a small plush wolf tucked under her arm.
Her eyes were steady.
Mia blinked. Then breathed.
She didn't ask how Sarah had known.
Sarah just said, "Next time, wait at the carousel."
And Mia nodded.