Chapter 1: Happy Birthday, Ed!
Chapter Text
Two kids, a sister and brother named Ed and Mia, were running cheerfully, oblivious to everything around them. They were in such a hurry to get to the newly opened fair because a circus had arrived in their city that day. Ed hadn't waited for his parents and had taken his sister with him. Today was his tenth birthday, and he felt old enough to make such decisions. Mia was only a year younger, but she was in no rush to grow up; she wanted to cherish the beautiful moments of her childhood as long as possible. The fair greeted them with a roar of music, flashes of garland lights, and the smell of cotton candy and roasted nuts. Everything was moving: the lights, the rides, the crowds. The world seemed huge and yet belonged to them alone.
"Let's go on the carousel!" Mia tugged at her brother's sleeve.
"The shooting gallery first!" Ed said stubbornly.
They hadn't come to an agreement, but splitting up wasn't an option; they'd just get lost and never find each other, so they decided to visit one attraction and then another. The main attraction before the show was the Ferris wheel, where they could see almost their entire small town, beautifully lit by night lights. In the shooting gallery, Ed aimed for a long time, missed, but didn’t give up until finally he knocked down the prize. It was a ridiculous but charming keychain. He immediately attached it to his sister’s backpack. Then there was the racetrack: clattering cars, cardboard pedestrians, screeching brakes, and booming laughter. They stuck together even if they couldn’t agree. The Ferris wheel spun them slowly, lifting them up smoothly. From above, the city looked like a toy, lit up with a myriad of lights as if someone had scattered stars on the streets. The ice cream melted in his hands, leaving a sweet residue on his lips. And then the tent. The line snaked all the way to the horizon. A performance was waiting under the dome. A man in a top hat stood at the entrance, his smile unnaturally wide, as if drawn. He distributed balloons to some of them. One, bright red like a strawberry, went to Mia. She held it in her hand like a treasure. Inside was darkness, flashlights, applause. Artists entered the arena: jugglers, acrobats, clowns. The rhythm increased; events flickered as if in a kaleidoscope. The balloons burst, and the children laughed. Ed even managed to get on stage; he helped the magician. His small figure was lost in the light. He received a shiny sticker as a gift: a sticker of happy-sad theatrical masks and a cherry candy. It was surprisingly thick and had a bland, artificial taste. The show paused for an intermission. The crowd surged noisily from their seats, buzzing and roaring. Mia suddenly pinched her brother’s shoulder, her eyes glittering piteously, and the boy immediately understood why. Just a glance from her was enough to read her requests. He sighed like an adult and, slightly annoyed, led her to the restroom booths at the edge of the park. The metal doors creaked, the concrete was damp, and the acrid smell of bleach permeated the air. Ed stood patiently to one side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking around. Mia came out, smiling and carefree again, and they walked briskly back to the tent. But something had changed in the area. It was a clear and warm summer night, when suddenly a fog appeared from somewhere, creeping out from behind the trees, from under the stage, as if the park itself were breathing it out from within. The world they had been laughing at just a few minutes earlier suddenly grew dim. The fun was gone. In its place was a dry, rusty silence. The Ferris wheel no longer shone; its cabs hung like broken toys, and the iron beams were crusted with a reddish coating. Metal creaked with every movement, and the rides were abandoned and peeling. The tables of treats were sunken and covered with cobwebs, like something from an abandoned dream. The children’s footsteps became cautious. They walked through this suddenly dead holiday as if they were wading through someone else’s memory. Inside the tent, there was no light, no music, no voices. Just the darkness stretching out to claim them. Mia squeezed her brother’s hand convulsively. She was really afraid, and Ed could feel it. He could barely stand it himself.
"Let's just go home," she begged, her voice a trembling whisper barely audible over the wind.
He nodded. They were already turning, already taking a step, when a whisper came from the back of the tent. Not a voice, but rather a sound like a fingernail scratching on glass — familiar but wrong, as if someone was repeating their names, mispronouncing the syllables. Ed stopped walking. He turned around. A hand appeared out of the darkness, long and pale, gliding through the air like a puppet's. She waved at them as if to invite them in. Ed's chest felt cold, and his palms were clammy with sweat. Abruptly, he spun Mia around to face him, cradling her head against his shoulder and covering her eyes with his hand. His own breathing became rapid and ragged, his heart pounding so loudly that it seemed to be audible even in the sudden silence. When he looked again, the figure had already emerged from the shadows. A man came out from the back of the tent. His tall, bony figure moved unnaturally smoothly, as if guided by an invisible thread. The worn top hat was tilted to one side, revealing tangled hair that was matted together in wiry strands like burnt straw. He brushed mechanically at his sleeve, and something dark and grainy fell from the cloth, settling to the ground like dead snow. His mouth stretched into a grin that revealed a row of unnaturally straight teeth. The skin was streaked with blue, like parchment paper stretched over a skull. And then Ed saw the blue-black mark on his neck, clear and distinct, as if burned into the flesh. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, counting slowly to banish the fear.
"Why are you not responding?" The voice came from directly behind her, suddenly and unnaturally clear.
The children shuddered in unison. Ed instinctively lunged forward, covering Mia with his body. The man in the top hat was standing dangerously close that Ed could see the yellowish coating on his teeth. His eyes didn't seem to blink at all, and there was something profoundly wrong with his gaze. Mia shrank back against her brother. A soft whimper escaped her lips on its own, as if her body had reacted before her mind could. The air around them seemed to thicken into a suffocating, sticky syrup. She felt like a moth pinned to a dark velvet pillow.
"Whoa, don't cry!" He threw his hands up, a nervous tremor in his fingers. "I didn't mean to scare you!"
The words were soft, almost pleading, but Ed didn't move. He held her tight, automatically stroking her shoulder. He could feel her trembling through the thin fabric of his shirt. His own heart pounded as if it were trying to escape his chest. The stranger stood speechless before them, a statue. Then suddenly he took off his top hat. He slowly lowered his hand inside. The black lining seemed bottomless, a void like the entrance to another world. A moment later, he pulled out a small flower. It was as fragile as the thinnest paper, emitting a subtle glow.
"For you," he said, offering the flower to the girl.
Mia fell silent, her words dying on her lips. Tears still glistened on her lashes, but her fingers, moving on their own, instinctively reached for the miracle.
"Is it... alive?" she breathed out, barely touching the petal with her fingertips. A wave of warmth spread through her fingers, so real and soothing that for a fleeting moment, it washed away all her fear. The man watched her intently, the faint glow of the flower dancing in his eyes.
"Are you... a magician?" the girl managed, her tear-filled eyes searching his face. The man was silent for a moment, studying her with a strange intensity, as if she were a rare and fragile butterfly he’d found.
"You could say that," he replied, his voice a low, gentle rumble that felt utterly out of place in the harsh, rusted world around them.
Ed watched in silence, not letting go of his sister. His fingers trembled slightly, but he didn't clench his fists, just held her close, as if trying to let her fear through. "We've met before," the man continued, and his fingers involuntarily went to his neck, to that blue-black mark. "Remember the balloon?"
Mia instinctively reached into her pocket for the remains of the balloon that had burst. "Oh, that's a pity. But that's okay. And now-" His voice started to be lower, more serious — "there's almost no time left. It's dangerous here. Follow me. Quickly." He turned abruptly and strode toward the tent without hesitation, as if every step he took was calculated. But the children didn't move. Ed felt an icy chill run down his spine. "I think we should go," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Our parents are waiting for us."
The stranger suddenly froze, as if he had hit an invisible wall. He turned slowly. The shadows seemed to thicken around his face, sharply outlining his cheekbones, and his lips were compressed into a thin white line. The children involuntarily retreated even further. "What do you not understand about the words it's dangerous here?" His voice was like the crack of a whip. "Come back!"
The voice was no longer soft. It sounded like an order. And behind them, the black mouth of the tent gaped open, nothing like the one from which the children had once watched the show with delight. They were no longer listening to him but were drowning in the fog that had appeared from the stranger's arrival, as if they were being swallowed by the darkness itself. Ed and Mia, hands clasped tightly, dove into the white haze, hoping desperately that there would be a way out. But there was no way out. Instead of the usual paths, there was a silent void. Dull, viscous, and suffocating. Everything was gone: the sky, the trees, even the smells. Only an endless fog, enveloping them like a shroud. Gravel crunched undertheir feet, and their hearts were pounding so hard they thought they would burst. It was getting scarier by the second; the air was getting colder, their footsteps were muffled. Someone growled from somewhere to the side. On the other, light, shuffling footsteps, as if someone small was stalking them. Mia clung to her brother's arm until her knuckles were white. Ed gritted his teeth and pulled her forward, no matter how scary it was. They walked almost at random, just to keep moving. And then silhouettes began to appear out of the fog. At first, faint shadows cast by an invisible light, and then closer and closer. They surrounded them, closing the ring. The children's footsteps quickened. The shadows sped up. One of the silhouettes howled, a hoarse sound cutting through the silence, and the children ran. Their hearts were pounding, and their legs were weak. And, suddenly, a blow. Out of the fog a shadow darted in, wrapped itself around Mia, and sank its teeth into her arm. She screamed like a trapped animal. Ed lunged for her but was immediately surrounded. The shadows reached for him, ready to tear him apart. And then silence. One by one, the silhouettes began to crumble like sand. To vanish, to crumble to dust, as if they had never existed. The last one to disappear was the one that had tormented Mia. A man emerged from the swirling haze, his face tired and scowling, almost stern. He clutched the top hat in his hands as if it were a weapon instead of an accessory. Ed looked at him in mute appeal, unable to speak. His eyes instantly filled with tears. He dropped to his knees beside his sister. She was trembling, her skin turning deathly pale, and her arm seemed to melt away before his eyes, crumbling to dust. The magician didn't say a word. He took out the same flower that he had given Mia and tore off two petals. They seemed to come to life, twisting and gently wrapping around her injured arm, turning into a thin bandage.
"Everything will be fine now," the man said softly.
Ed burst into tears. He hugged Mia to him, then crawled over to the stranger and clung to him for dear life, mumbling his thanks through his tears. The man chuckled, then frowned and slapped the boy lightly on the back of the head.
"Wandering around in a strange place without knowing what's going on? That's recklessness. Although not trusting the first comer is the right thing to do," he paused and stared at Ed, as if he saw something familiar in him.
"Will you come with me now?" the magician continued.
"Do we have any other choice?" Ed looked up at him with tired, fearful eyes.
"Do you want to stay here?" The man shrugged. "Then I'm leaving. Good luck."
"No!" Ed screamed, squeezing his sister's hand.
"Good. It's time to introduce myself. My name is Adam. And you..."
"Ed and Mia..."
"Yes, I know. Well, now we know each other. Get up, take your sister, and let's go."
"But how do you know us?" the boy gasped weakly.
Adam just gave a wry grin and stepped into the fog without even looking back.
"Don't ask too many questions."
Ed scooped up his sister gently. She was very light, like down, as if her body were about to turn into smoke. The magic petals were gradually tightening around Mia's hand, which had recently been melting in the shadows. They glimmered in the tent's gloom like shards of a broken sun. Adam led the way. His shadow stretched unnaturally long behind him, as if someone invisible were following him. There was a strange timelessness all around: the carousel spun silently, though no one had started it; the popcorn in the stalls lay in unnaturally flat mounds, as if carved out of stone. A sickly smell of cotton candy mixed with burning hung in the air. Noticing that Ed was a little out of breath, the magician picked Mia up without a word and carried her into the tent. There, he laid the girl down on an old bench, motioning for Ed to sit next to her. A dusty garland of faded flags hung down from above. The once-vivid drawings on them were now indistinguishable. Mia stirred. Her eyes opened, reflecting the trembling light of the petals. Her arm was still intact. The magic petals, having done their job, crumbled to dust. Ed wanted to ask about the flower, but the magician just shook his head.
"We can't stay here," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We need to go. Now."
"Go where?" Mia sat up, hugging herself against a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the cold.
"Home." The word hung in the air between them, simple and absolute.
"You don't belong here," he murmured, almost to himself.
Hearing the word "home," the children seemed to wake from a long, anxious dream. A light appeared in their eyes — warm, homely, like the glow of a lamp in a window late at night. The word didn't just sound like a promise but like an incantation that called forth everything most familiar to them: the smell of the strawberry cake Ed had always loved, Grandma's voice amid the rustle of bags filled with secrets and gifts, Dad with his stupid jokes, Mom constantly blushing because of them, and a soft blanket that smelled like safety and comfort. The children were still uneasy, but their footsteps were lighter. A door opened.
Chapter 2: White scales
Notes:
Starting from this chapter, almost all the chapters will be very large, I hope you will not be afraid of the size.
Chapter Text
Kids had always been curious: what was hidden behind the scenes? In a normal circus, everything was clear: dressing rooms, prop rooms, costume rooms. It's places where artists briefly became ordinary people. But here, under this tent, there should have been nothing. Just the floor, the ropes stretched taut, and the canvas covering the grass or perhaps gravel. However, the man opened the door, and there was no street or light outside. Only a thick, dense darkness, as if woven from the fabric of night itself. The air vibrated like a taut string about to snap. Adam stood quietly, as if he knew exactly what was waiting for him on the other side. He stared into the darkness as if trying to hear it breathe. One step, and the sound of his heel thudded on the floor, as if waking the space. The darkness wavered like a dust-covered mirror, then receded, revealing a strange room. A room, or a reflection of a room. Mirrors, dozens, hundreds — endless duplicates of reality leading nowhere. The light here was soft, wavering, as if it came not from lamps but from the glass surfaces themselves. There were no walls, only mirrors that seemed to watch their every move. The magician stepped inside, slowly stretching out his hand as if testing the density of the air. His fingers slid through the void, meeting neither glass nor cloth. He avoided looking at the reflections, as if he knew what he might see there. And the children stood on the threshold, feeling as if the scenery of reality had shifted behind them. The tent, the ground, the silence — everything began to sound different, like a dream that suddenly wasn't just a dream anymore.
"Come in," he whispered, and the words faded into the cool air.
Mia took the first step. It was as if she was drawn into this mirrored void, where boundaries were blurred and reflections ceased to obey. The room breathed icy air, shimmering with a deceptive luster. Not a maze, but a trap: beautiful, inviting, created by someone's madness. Here you had to walk without looking around, so as not to see your reflection suddenly blink after you. Ed froze in the doorway. He hated places like this. Since childhood, they brought nausea, a vise squeezing his temples, panic when the movement in the mirror occurred a second later than it should. He took a step. The door slammed shut with a dry click, as if it had been waiting for this moment.
"Wait for me!" he shouted, and his voice echoed like breaking glass.
"Slowpoke!" her voice echoed back. Mia's voice rang out, multiplying, bouncing off the glass walls, as if all the possible versions of her were laughing at once, and each one knew something he didn't.
Ed lunged forward. His forehead slammed into the glass. A cry caught in his throat. He saw a reflection in front of him: his sister and the magician, but as if slowed down, floating in the space of an alien world. He screamed again, but there was no answer. Just laughter. It came from all directions, filling his ears, his head, his chest. Flashing lights, everything was the same. One step, one more, and nothing changed. He couldn't stand, he couldn't stop. He stretched his hands out, like Adam did, and made a blind move. Shadows moved in the mirrors. A silent whisper. Sometimes he would go back to where he had started. The minutes dragged on as if everything was happening underwater. The laughter stopped. All that remained was silence and the flickering overhead lights.
"Anybody?" His voice faded into nothingness. No one answered. Despair washed over him like a warm, suffocating wave. He slowly lowered himself to the floor, drew up his legs, and pressed his forehead to his knees. Hot, real tears welled up of their own accord. Suddenly, darkness. The light flickered and then went out.
His heart beat once, twice, and on the third beat he saw a figure standing at the other end: tall, dark, impossible. "Mr. Adam? Is that you?" Ed whispered, his voice shaking like a thin thread in the wind. The figure didn't respond. It stood for a moment, motionless, breathless, then slid away and disappeared into the mirrored depths.
"Wait!" he screamed, and the sound echoed through hundreds of identical corridors.
He charged forward, careless. Tears blurred his vision, and fear clenched his throat. A blow, and his forehead smashed into the cold glass. The world flared with pain, then plunged into darkness. Ed collapsed to the floor. Blood trickled from his nose in a thin, hot stream. His body refused to respond, as if weighed down by an invisible weight. Something white moved in the mirror. A scaly tail wriggled behind the glass, sliding across an invisible surface. It was a snake. Huge, with eyes like drops of blood. It circled around his reflection, poking its muzzle into the barrier. A black forked tongue shot out, leaving muddy trails on the glass. Its head whirled around its body, bumping its nose into the glass. It couldn't get out. And somewhere in this mirrored abyss, a voice broke through the noise in his ears.
"Ed? Ed, get up!"
He shuddered and propped himself up on his elbows. His head ached, and the world swam before his eyes. Grass. Real grass under his fingers. And Mia, real and alive, her eyes full of tears, was already wrapped around him, her hands shaking as she clutched at his shoulders. There were many of people. They crowded around, holding out their hands, talking in anxious voices.
"Give me a napkin …ice…Water!" someone shouted from the crowd. Ed accepted the napkin automatically but didn't wipe the blood away. The whispers grew louder, and questions poured in from all sides.
"Are you ok?"
"What's your name?"
"Where are your parents?"
Someone was already dialing the ambulance number, hastily dictating the address. "Stand back, give him some air!" a sharp voice cut through the crowd.
A girl leaned over Ed. Beautiful to the point of unnaturalness, as if she had descended from an old circus poster. Her costume sparkled as if it had been woven from a thousand spangles just for the magic number. Her golden hair was pulled back in a perfect bun, revealing a face that was immaculate, without a single flaw, with skin that was snow-white and almost transparent. A face without a speck, without a trace of time. But the most striking features were her eyes — crystal blue, like frozen lakes, with the same icy cold inside. Her beauty was so perfect that he wanted to turn away from her, but his eyes wouldn't listen. She leaned closer, and her fingers gently brushed his arm, as if she were afraid of breaking it, or as if she were touching something else. Ed tried to stand up. His body wouldn't listen; the space around him swam. Faces, noise, even the sky blurred. Only the blood slowly dripping from his nose seemed real.
"Oh, my God…poor boy," she whispered. The voice was gentle, but there was something about it that sent a chill down his spine, like a sweet that suddenly makes your teeth ache. "Come with me. I'll take you to the doctor."
"No thanks…I'm fine," he said softly, not taking his gaze from her icy eyes.
"Don't worry," she tilted her head slightly, "I'll just stop the bleeding."
Her voice was gentle, almost motherly, but there was something quivering in it. It was a bit false, like the rehearsed intonation of an actress repeating a familiar line for the hundredth time. Ed shook his head and said curtly that he was fine. His voice was muffled, and his fingers tightened around Mia's arm. They returned to the tent together. The girl who was just there had vanished as if she had never existed. The crowd settled into their seats; the intermission ended, and the noise died down. Ed was hunched over. There was a silent question in his eyes. He didn't remember the fall and didn't understand why there were worried faces around him.
"You just fell," Mia whispered without turning her head. "For no reason. You were out for a long time."
He didn't answer. He just stared ahead, as if peering into a fog. The lights went out. For a moment, absolute darkness reigned. There was a rustle, a stifled sigh. The ringmaster entered the arena, his voice piercing the silence. He announced the next act:
"The Mysterious Snake Dance! Performed by the artist, Mary!"
Spotlights shot into the darkness, picking out a figure from the gloom. A change swept through the audience, a sharp and inexplicable anxiety hanging thick in the air. Mary appeared out of the smoke, as if emerging from the depths of someone else's dream. Her body was wrapped in flowing gold and emerald, the fabric blending into her skin, shimmering with every movement like snake scales. On her shoulders, a long, flexible snake, the color of dark honey and bronze, writhed. It glided smoothly over the artist's hands, like an extension of her body. The music didn't start immediately. At first, it was just the sound of a heartbeat, booming as if it was beating somewhere in the tent itself. Then a low, animal hum, as if someone had drawn a bow across a taut string. And with that strange sound, Mary began to move. Her movements were sometimes as slow as a shadow, sometimes as sharp as a flash of lightning. Her arms spread out like wings, then bent like tentacles, then curled in the air like flexible vines. The snake followed her every curve, twining around her neck, sliding down her thighs, intertwining with her body without fear of falling, without causing pain. Its tongue shot out into the air, picking up the vibrations of the crowd. Mary's eyes were closed. Her face was calm, almost serene, like a sleeper's. But there was absolute control in every muscle. She wasn't dancing with a snake. It became her. Or perhaps she was driving it, dictating the rhythm, leading it into a ritual that only the two of them could understand. The light changed from gold to green, from green to scarlet. Patterns flashed across the floor, like ancient symbols drawn by fire. Mary whirled in a whirlwind; the snake seemed to flutter, rising up to form a living crown above her head. At that moment, the entire tent froze. Someone forgot to breathe. Someone felt goosebumps running down their skin. The dance no longer felt like a performance; it became a spell, ancient and unsolved. And then, the final chord. The light went out abruptly, as if cut off with a knife. A whisper echoed in the darkness, a slight hiss, like the echo of a poison that didn't hurt but changed something inside forever. The dance reached its peak, Mary's movements becoming faster, sharper, as if something inside her was bursting out. The snake, as if sensing the approaching denouement, twisted faster and faster. And suddenly, a stop. Complete, deathly silence. Mary froze in an incongruously crooked pose, like a porcelain doll that had been forgotten on a shelf. Her eyes were wide, and something inhuman flashed in them. She brought her hand to the snake's head. It slowly lifted its head, red eyes flashing. And then a sharp, predatory jerk. The snake bit her. Thin fangs dug into the back of her neck, precise and fast. A thick, milky liquid oozed from the wound. At the same time, Mary fell backward, soundlessly, as if she'd been knocked down. She fell as if thrown by an invisible hand. The snake slid off her body and crawled away into the darkness, disappearing under the arena. The artist lay motionless. Dead. A flurry of applause erupted. The audience was thrilled; people laughed, clapped, whistled, jumped to their feet. No one screamed. No one called for help. As if it was all part of the script. As if the bite and death were the perfect final note of the dance. The light slowly returned. Mary's body was gone, as if it had melted into smoke. All that remained was a sweet, cloying smell. The applause continued unabated. People shouted "Bravo!"; their eyes sparkled, their faces lit up with delight. Mia laughed, clapping her hands, her eyes burning. She was mesmerized, fascinated by this strange, hypnotic dance that had ended in death, and for some reason, it seemed beautiful to her. Her palms beat faster and louder than everyone else's. She even stood up to get a better view. Ed sat next to her, his hands still in his lap. He couldn't move. His heart pounded too loudly. It seemed to him that only he understood what had happened. He had seen the life leave her eyes, not theatrically, not in jest, but for real. He had seen the snake glide away. He looked at the stage, where the body was now invisible, hidden by darkness and smoke. He looked at his sister, who was caught up in the collective delight, and felt that everything was wrong. It wasn't real; it was a hoax. Or, worse, the terrible truth that everyone had willingly accepted as a game. He wanted to say something, to call out to Mia, but the words stuck in his throat, as if his voice had been taken away. He suddenly felt cold, and the whole show. The noise, the applause faded away, as if he were sitting underwater while the world above the surface continued to have fun. And next to him, Mia continued to clap, her smile too wide, her eyes too bright. Her hands clapped together in a strange, unsettling rhythm.
"Isn't it beautiful?" she whispered, her voice sounding wrong, like a recording played at the wrong speed.
A thin black thread crawled out from under the collar of her dress, twisting in the air as if sniffing for something, then reaching for Ed. At the last moment, he recoiled. The spotlight went out. When the light returned, Mia was sitting quietly, her hands folded in her lap.
"Ed?" The girl frowned. "Did you fall asleep or something?"
Ed jerked as if he'd been electrocuted. His heart was pounding so hard that his temples ached. He blinked several times, barely able to focus. "What?" His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken for a long time.
Mia was looking at him with her usual childish scowl, her brows drawn up and her lips pursed. No smoke, no strings attached. "Do you even watch the show?" she nudged him. "You miss all the most interesting things!"
He slowly shifted his gaze to the arena. Everything was alive again; the stage was flooded with a soft golden light, and one of the artists brought out the next props, sparkling with sequins. Ed blinked and swallowed.
"You're so funny," Mia snorted and applauded again as a new number began. "And this will definitely be cool! Look!"
But he wasn't looking. He closed his eyes. He could feel a chill running down his spine. He could feel his heart still pounding out of time with the music. A glittering, lacy platform was rolled out into the arena, like part of a huge music box. Its facets were strewn with grainy shards that reflected light in the most bizarre patterns. Above the dais was a thin arc of gold and glass, and under it, purple silk curtains were already being set up, like the petals of a night flower. Everything was bathed in a soft, slightly lilac light. The crowd talked excitedly. She came out. With the same flowing grace, the same semi-transparent dress that fluttered like mist. The bells on her wrists rang like winter wind chimes. Her hair was now pulled back in a high, fancy updo. The snake was crawling over her shoulders again, like an obedient ribbon. Ed was petrified; he couldn't breathe. It was impossible. He had just seen her fall. Breathless. He remembered her body hitting the floor. He remembered the strange silence that precedes a storm of applause. It wasn't a trick. But there she was, dancing as if nothing had happened. Her eyes were still icy cold. Not a scar, not a scratch, not a hint of death. He turned abruptly to Mia, grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her slender wrist.
"Did you see it?" His voice was hoarse, like a layer of ash. "She…"
Mia rolled her eyes and pulled her hand away. "Aha!" she laughed, and there was the same nonchalance in her voice as the rest of the crowd. "So what? They must have cloned her. Or, like, magic!" She spread her hands as if that explained everything. "It's a circus!"
Mia continued to clap her hands, matching the rhythm of the applause. Her movements were as mechanical as the rest of the audience's. Ed kept his eyes on Mary, watching her body curve with an unnatural smoothness. The snake was wrapped around her neck like a living ornament, and her fingers were moving oddly. He was looking for the slightest flaw, the slightest hint of truth, but all he had in front of him was a perfect performance. The light, the dance, the hypnotic beauty, and the cold horror that tightened in his chest. Unable to resist, Ed grabbed his sister's arm and dragged her to the exit. Their escape was so close — just a few steps away from the colorful curtain that should have led to a normal world, fresh air, normalcy. But when he pulled the cloth, it rang like crystal. Ed recoiled, and now there was only a smooth, mirror-like surface in front of them, dimly reflecting their frightened faces. The reflections moved with a barely noticeable delay, as if someone had clumsily copied their movements. He slowly turned around. The room froze. Not a single round of applause. The audience sat motionless, their backs straight, their heads turned toward the stage, their smiles frozen. No chest heaved; no eyelids blinked. Dead silence. The light in the tent flickered, went out, then flared up again, this time with a cold, bluish glow, like a freezer case. The walls began to shimmer, and lightning flashed through the fabric. Bright circus colors dripped down like molten glass, filling the cracks in the floor. Everything was losing its shape, as if the circus was just a fragile shell, and now this illusion was being destroyed. Ed pulled Mia toward another section of the tent, where the mirrored panels were just beginning to pulse and distort. The ground gave way beneath them; the world rocked like a ship in a storm. Every step they took made a dull rumble, as if they were running on thin ice, ready to crack at any moment. They made their way through the rows that were now spreading out like a wet drawing. The chairs bent at impossible angles, turning into staircases leading to nothing. The dome of the tent swelled and shrank as if it wanted to swallow them up. Ed looked around. Mia was still with him, and he could feel her warm hand in his, hear her ragged breathing, but she didn't say anything.
"We're almost out," Ed whispered, squeezing his sister's hand. "Just a little more…"
A wall of mirrors rose up in front of them, but they weren't just mirrors. Their surfaces pulsed like living flesh. Reflections flickered in the depths of the glass: the faces of the audience, the stage, Mary with the snakes, his own distorted face, Mia's face. The shots flickered, as if the world was stuck between dreams. Ed suddenly realized that he couldn't feel the warmth of her hand.
"Mia?" She didn't answer. Her eyes were open but empty. Two glass balls reflecting flickering light. She stood motionless, not breathing, not trembling. "Mia…?" his voice broke.
He opened his fingers, and her hand shattered into light like cracked glass without a sound or a trace. Only her silhouette remained on the mirrored wall, as if she had always been just a reflection. Ed froze, his eyes wide. He stood alone in the endless, mirrored void. The tent was gone. Now he was surrounded by endless glass walls, where every reflection smiled at him with alien features. Ribbons of smoke hung from the ceiling, frozen in crystals. Shadows without sources moved across the floor. Footsteps echoed in the silence. The mirror in front of him flickered. The light sighed, and beyond the surface, beyond the thinnest edge, something alive moved. A figure slowly emerged from the depths. First the silhouette, then the face. Mary, the same and not the same. Her skin was like porcelain, and her hair swayed as if in invisible water. Her eyes glowed the dull gold of snake pupils. She glided forward without touching the floor, as if the mirrors themselves were carrying her toward him.
"Our boy understood everything," she said, her voice echoing off the glass walls. The sound came from all directions at once, as if space itself was speaking through her mouth. "Bravo, Ed. You almost even ran away."
He froze in place, only his fingers curling into fists. His heart was pounding so hard that his temples throbbed and his breath caught in his throat.
"Where's Mia?" he asked in a whisper that was more like a groan.
Mary's lips turned up at the corners, forming an unnaturally wide smile. Her fingers slid across the invisible surface of the mirror, as if she were caressing an invisible cage from the inside.
"Oh, she was a delightful part of the show. So pliable."
Gliding lightly through the air, Mary took a step forward and stepped out of the mirror's captivity, as if crossing an invisible threshold. The space around her quivered, obeying, as if rejoicing at her appearance.
"Did you like my performance?" She swung in a smooth arc around him, the heels of her sandals not touching the floor, yet each step was accompanied by a crystal clink.
Ed instinctively shrank back, but his back hit the cold, mirrored surface. In the reflection, his own face, distorted with fear, twitched in time with his rapid breathing.
"What do you want from me?" he whispered, and his voice was hoarse.
Mary tilted her head at an elegant angle. There was an apparent tenderness in the movement, almost maternal concern. "Nothing, dear," she whispered, holding out a hand with unnaturally long fingers. "Just stay with me."
Her eyes flashed with an unnatural light. The hand reached out to him, but the movements were wrong, the fingers twisting at the joints, breaking at the elbows, bending at impossible angles, as if they were obeying not anatomy, but some perverted will. There was something bestial and primal about this theatricality. Beauty reduced to absurdity, turned into a nightmare. Ed stood there, paralyzed. His mind screamed run, but his body refused to believe in the reality of what was happening. And she continued to speak softly, as if cradling a child.
"I can feel you shaking. Even when you stand so bravely." Her voice flowed like honey.
Her shadow was already licking at his shoes. It was as cold as a dungeon where the sun never penetrated. The floor beneath his feet began to crack, forming patterns that looked like either blood vessels or the roots of a poisonous plant. Those cracks were slowly, inexorably reaching for his feet.
"It means you're alive." She licked her lips, and at that moment her pupils narrowed into vertical slits. "And live food always tastes better."
Her smile stretched to an impossible length. Her teeth poked out from behind her lips, quivering with impatience. They creaked as if they were starving. Mary held up her hand; the shadows pulsed under her skin. Something alive was swarming inside, bursting to get out. As her fingers moved closer to his face, Ed felt the skin on his cheek begin to burn, as if a hot wire had been applied to it. Her eyes no longer resembled a human's but were now funnels, swirling in endless spirals, ready to suck his consciousness into the void. Her voice cut through the glass gloom like a knife through film.
"Ed, can you hear us?" It was like lightning striking glass. Two voices cut into that mirrored void. One was clear, almost childlike, but with a shiver of despair; the other, hoarse and harsh.
Mary froze. Her smile vanished as abruptly as if it had been erased. Her hand twitched in a spasm, like a doll whose strings had been suddenly cut. She sat up abruptly, and her eyes, which had been spiraling madly, suddenly darkened, the pupils dilating into black abysses.
"No… No, not him…" she hissed, and for the first time, there was something like fear in her voice.
Adam's voice grew louder, closer, and with it came a strange vibrating tinkle, like someone hitting a thousand glasses with a crystal mallet. The mirrors around them shivered, their surfaces clouding like misted glass. Ed turned around. Somewhere out there, in the depths of one of the reflective walls, two silhouettes flashed by, running towards him. One was a girl with flowing hair, her face pale, her eyes burning. Not with the glassy sheen of the Mia that had crumbled in his hands, but with real, fierce fire. And Adam, running ahead, clutching his top hat, but now it seemed heavier, more massive, as if filled with something foreign.
"Ed, get back!" Adam snapped, his voice booming like a thunderclap. "Don't listen to her!"
Mary wailed in inhuman, grinding sound, like metal being torn. Her face contorted, her skin crawling like wax, revealing for a moment what was underneath. "You're not going anywhere," she croaked, but her voice was already twofold, cracking like a broken record.
The glass walls trembled, making an eerie scraping sound like a knife on glass. Cracks, like living things, spread across the mirrored surfaces, forming intricate patterns that resembled the circulatory system of some monstrous organism. Blood-red and poison-green reflections flickered on and off, creating an eerie chaos of light. Mary began to shake. At first, the skin on her face and arms began to bubble and move, as if thousands of tiny creatures were swarming under it. Then her eyes blurred; the whites turned purple, and the pupils disappeared, turning into two balls of blood. As the world around them collapsed with a deafening crash, Ed and Mia instinctively covered their faces with their hands. A blinding flash of white light gushed out from all directions, penetrating even through their closed eyelids. The light went out as suddenly as it had come. When their vision returned, they saw the maze close around them again. The floor shook under their feet, and Ed fell to his knees, his fingers digging into the cold tile. There was a dry crack. Mary arched into a spasm, her shoulders snapping, her arms twisting at the joints with the characteristic crunch of dry twigs. Her fingers began to grow together, and her skin peeled off in patches, revealing glistening white scales. Where a human body had been a moment ago, something shapeless now writhed, like a discarded shell. From that ball of flesh, a snake's head erupted. A giant white snake now towered in front of them, its scales shimmering like mother-of-pearl under the ghostly light. The red-hot embers of its eyes glowed with hatred, and its forked tongue flickered like a glass blade. The monster twisted in powerful coils, shattering the mirrors around it. When its tail hit the floor, cracks spread across the tile, following the pattern of its new veins.
"Run!" Ed shouted, his voice cracking with horror.
Before he could even think, his fingers dug into Mia's arm, and they shot forward without knowing their way. The snake darted after them, and the mirror maze exploded into chaos. A thousand reflections of the snake's head, their own fear-stricken faces, and space tearing like paper flickered in the broken glass. They ran, stumbling between the mirrored walls. Only a faint light illuminated the slippery passageways. Adam ran behind them, his breath rasping like the broken bellows of an accordion. Their hearts were pounding so hard they felt like they would burst from their chests. Suddenly, there was a glassy tinkle, instantaneous, like a crack in a nerve. Mia whirled around, her hair whipping across her face like cold whips.
"Ed, what is that…?"
"Don't look!" he said sharply, but it was too late. In one of the mirrors, a red gleam flashed—two fiery eyes, unblinking, devoid of all humanity. They disappeared for a moment, like a snake's shadow moving across a glass surface.
"The mirrors!" Adam's voice was sharp as a whip. "It's moving through them!"
The space around them began to pulse and distort. The mirrored surfaces quivered like living things, their reflections blurring and reassembling, as if the snake had become part of their very structure. A light, almost affectionate rustle sounded somewhere very close by. A sharp crack echoed up ahead, like a powerful tail hitting glass. It was clear the monster wasn't just chasing them; it was playing with them like a cat with a mouse.
"Back up!" Mia suddenly screamed and yanked Ed to the side.
Just in time. The mirror they had just passed burst with a bang. A tongue of crimson flame shot out from the crack, leaving smoking spots on the floor.
"It can attack from inside the mirrors!" Adam was shouting, but his voice was almost lost in the growing rumble of the collapsing maze.
The mirrors around them flickered simultaneously, and a glimmer of white scales flashed in each of them.
"We need shelter. Somewhere with no mirrors!" Ed took a deep breath, glancing over his shoulder.
Just as hope seemed lost, Mia noticed an old wooden door with peeling paint around one of the corners.
"There!" her cry was both startled and ecstatic.
They made a dash for the exit when a muffled explosion sounded behind them. One of the mirrors shattered, and a glistening, scaly mouth stretched out through the shards. Razor-sharp teeth snapped in the air, narrowly missing Adam before disappearing back into the glass surface. The door slammed shut behind them with a heavy thud. Absolute darkness. The air was thick with the smell of dust, old wood, and something sweet and rancid. And the overwhelming silence after the mad crash.
"Can it come through here?" Mia pressed her back against the wall nervously, her voice shaking.
Adam wiped his forehead on his sleeve. "But she'll find a way. We just bought some time."
Ed sank to his knees, his body still pounding with small tremors. He knew it wasn't over. This was just the beginning of a real hunt. And Mary wasn't smiling anymore. There was only a hungry frenzy in her now. The buzzing in his ears subsided. The darkness was filled with dust and the smell of old makeup and rancid perfume, slightly sweet, like dried flowers. It was cool and quiet, like a museum of forgotten faces. A dressing room. Heavy brocade curtains, a darkened mirror that no longer reflected anything, smudged with faded lipstick. Colorful feathers, disheveled wigs, torn gloves, bottles without labels. Everything was in a mess, as if the mistress had left this place forever. The dust settled slowly, as if even it was afraid to disturb the silence. Something about this room felt uncomfortably cold inside, as if someone had cried here more than once. Mia's gaze skimmed over the mess, her fingers clenching the edge of the table involuntarily as she noticed the scattered photos. Ed was already leaning over them. A woman's face peeked out from under a yellowed letter, a confident smile on her face, and a man next to her. Mia noticed the picture a second later. Adam moved faster than thought. His hand covered the photo with an unnatural sharpness, as if the image burned him. Without a word, he folded the picture in half and put it in his inside pocket. His back remained straight, but for a moment his shoulders slumped. He didn't even look at the children. He pretended that they hadn't seen it, that nothing had happened. Mia watched carefully, then lowered her eyes, pretending not to notice. But in her tenacious childhood memory, this gesture was imprinted forever. She didn't say anything, but she listened to him differently now. The silence in the dressing room became shaky, tense. But suddenly, somewhere deep in the corridors of the mirror maze, there was another rustle. It wasn't loud, but rather a scraping sound, like someone running their fingernails over a glass surface from the inside. Barely audible, but enough to make the skin on the back of his neck prickle. Adam froze. His expression changed. Not to fear, but to concentration, tension, as if he had sensed the presence before he heard it.
"She's coming back," he whispered, and it sounded like a death sentence.
He started for the door, moving not like a defender, but like an executioner going to his last duty. His hands methodically checked his pockets: the cold metal of a key, the rough surface of a lighter, the folds of dark fabric that felt like a bat's wing. At the last moment, a shiny object slid out of his sleeve, some strange hybrid of a circus prop and a bladed weapon, with jagged edges like the blade of a card knife.
"Stay here," his voice sounded like rusty clockwork. "Whatever you hear, don't come out. And for God's sake, don't look in the mirrors."
He didn't give them time to argue. The door slammed shut with the finality of a coffin lid. The dressing room fell silent, as if they were trapped in a crypt. But beyond the wall, a nightmare began — a glass inferno, thuds like someone hitting crystal coffins with a sledgehammer. The screech of shattering glass punctuated by a blood-curdling snake hiss. The light flickered like an epileptic fit, and the blue-white flashes created a thousand crazy reflections in the mirrors. Adam walked through this madness like a somnambulist. His shadow multiplied, stretched, and twisted into spirals. And then she materialized, white as a limestone shroud, her scales glistening like dead mother-of-pearl. Her mouth opened to reveal stiletto fangs, and her eyes glowed like hot coals in ashes. She twisted out of the mirror with a crunch of breaking glass. Adam didn't flinch, but the cylinder came alive in his hands. A card flashed, turning into a curved blade. A throw, and the blade sank into the scaly neck. The snake howled, its cry shaking the walls. A chain from a second card wrapped around it like a garrote, but the creature lunged forward, and its tail tore off half a meter of the mirrored wall. A splinter sliced Adam's cheek, and blood trickled down his chin in warm streams. A third card flashed into a scarlet ball, a burst of blinding light leaving black scorch marks on its scales. For a moment, the reflections distorted, as if the maze itself were writhing in pain. The snake knocked him off his feet, and the cylinder rolled across the floor. The hot breath of death was already burning his face as he plunged the last card into the gaping maw. The snake screamed, the glass cracked, and the maze groaned. She disappeared, taking a part of reality with her. The mirrors dimmed as if covered in ash. Adam stood up, wiping the blood from his cheek with the palm of his hand. His top hat lay nearby, slightly crumpled.
"I'm sorry, Mary, but…" he said, not to the snake, but to the girl in the old photograph.
A shadow emerged from the depths of the mirrors. Blurry at first, like moonlight on the surface of water. Gradually, the outline became clearer, revealing the delicate features of Mary's pale face. But now there was no snake-like malice in her eyes, only an endless weariness, an almost human melancholy. She pressed her palms against the glass on the other side, like a prisoner touching the bars of her cage.
"Let me go, Adam," she said, her voice thick as water.
The silence between them stretched like an old spider's web, ready to break at the slightest movement. Adam stood motionless, his fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. In the mirror next to her silhouette, he looked different, as if a completely different person lived on the other side of the glass. He slowly lowered his hand, his fingers unclenching. Pain flashed in his eyes, but his resolve was unshakable.
"No," he said, his voice muffled, as if it came from underground. In the corner of the dressing room, a spider wove a web between a broken lamp and a portrait of a long-forgotten artist.
Mary froze in the mirror, her dress suddenly covered with mildew, which immediately disappeared.
"We've been doing this show for so many years," she whispered, and something ancient, like fear, flickered in her eyes.
Adam slowly raised his hand. His glove had rotted on his fingers, revealing yellowish bones. The middle finger was raised in a characteristic gesture, but instead of anger, the movement was one of age-old fatigue.
"You've always been a terrible actress," he grumbled, dust falling from his shoulders. "Even in death, you overdo it."
When he came out, the children noticed how his shadow remained on the wall for a second, not corresponding to his movements. In the mirror, Mary suddenly stuck out her tongue, black and dry as a mummified flower, and disappeared into the wet spots. The smell of musty flowers and old cosmetics hung in the air. The magician stumbled back into the dressing room, slamming the door so hard that a yellowed poster fell off the wall. His shirt hung in tatters, exposing pale skin streaked with blue. The dried blood on his cheekbone looked like smudges of old makeup. He plopped down on the stool, which creaked piteously under him, as if protesting. His fingers, trembling with exertion, found a bottle of something cloudy on the dressing table. He drank it in one gulp, not even wincing, although the liquid left an oily sheen on his lips, like mercury. His movements were not just tired but worn with the weariness of things that have outlived their owners. When he took off his gloves, his fingernails were an odd shade of lilac, as if they'd been soaking up the limelight for decades.
"It's all right," he said, his voice muffled, as if it came from the ground. "She's gone."
No excuses, no regrets. It was just a statement of fact, as if it were an aborted rehearsal, not an encounter with a giant snake. He got up and walked over to the dressing table. His fingers slid over the mirror frame, leaving bloody prints on the cracked wood. He grabbed a black handkerchief from the table and pressed it to his face. The handkerchief fell back, forming a strange shape like a bat's wings. Mia didn't say a word, but the way his hand shook as he adjusted his cuffs was etched in her memory forever. The lines that hadn't been there an hour ago gathered at the corners of his eyes. The smell of sweet mildew and decay followed him as he passed. Ed nodded, clenching his fists until his nails dug into his palms. Adam snapped his fingers, and the light above the mirror flickered, illuminating for a moment the empty reflections in which something moved. When he opened the door, a breeze blew out of the dressing room, even though the windows were tightly closed. In the mirror, there were only blurry silhouettes and a smudge that looked like a palm print, slowly sliding down. The second door creaked as if it was being opened for the first time in years.
Chapter 3: Diana
Chapter Text
As the maze of mirrors closed in behind them, leaving a strange buzzing in their ears, Ed couldn't shake the feeling that they were still being watched. His fingers tightened on his sister's arm, but a different sensation was already boiling in his chest: a volatile mix of anxiety, anger, and a cold, growing suspicion.
“Mr. Adam…” he gasped, not moving. “What is this place? What's going on here?”
The magician didn't seem to hear. He kept walking, not looking back, as if Ed's question meant nothing.
“Hey!” Ed said, his voice harder. “I'm serious. We won't take another step until you tell us what's going on here.”
Mia looked anxiously at her brother, then at the magician. Ed tightened his grip on her hand, as if to reassure himself. He stopped, and Mia stopped with him. Adam stiffened. His face remained calm, almost impassive, like that of an actor who has already played a part a hundred times. His lips didn't move, his eyelids didn't blink. Even his breathing seemed to stop. He stood there for a few seconds; a living statue of a magician frozen before the climax of his performance. Then, without a word, he turned around and walked forward. His back didn't show the slightest bit of tension, and his steps remained measured and precise. He moved with the same ease as if he were entering an arena in front of a crowd of thousands, absolutely sure that the audience would follow his every move. For him, the children were a matter of course, just another audience in an endless performance. His silence spoke louder than any words: "You will follow me because there is no alternative." And the worst part was: he was right. Ed stood stock-still, as if rooted to the spot. His heart was pounding so hard that he could feel it in his temples, exactly in time with the pulsing light that played across the glass walls. He watched the magician's figure grow smaller and smaller in the shifting perspective of the corridor.
“Is he… abandoning us?” Mia's voice shook as she tugged at her brother's sleeve, leaving wet fingerprints on the fabric.
There was no response. Bits of memory flashed before Ed's eyes: the night fair, the swirling fog, the shadows that twisted like living things. Sharp fangs biting into flesh. They had been running madly at random, and something invisible had been clinging to their clothes, trying to drag them into the darkness. That horror was back now. Ed realized that if Adam disappeared, the darkness would come alive again and the nightmare would repeat itself. His throat tightened. His fingers gripped his sister's arm until the knuckles turned white. The first step was an effort, as if he were lifting the weight of his own fear. Then the second and third. Mia, still looking back at the empty mirrors, trotted dutifully after him. When Ed finally caught up with the magician, he took a sharp step forward, blocking the way. There was something in his eyes that was stronger than fear.
“May I have an answer to my question?” Ed's voice was shaky but firm. “We can't just run around in the dark like blind kittens forever!”
Adam stopped walking. He slowly lowered his head to look at the children, as if his neck was creaking with age-old fatigue. His face was set in stone, not a wrinkle of concern, not a spark of sympathy. Just an endless, dead-end exposure.
“You will remain silent?!” Ed took a step forward, his legs slightly unsteady with rage. “We are not your puppets!”
Mia gently touched his elbow. When Ed turned around, he saw in her eyes the same thing that was boiling in his chest, fear mixed with rage. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve, not in reassurance, but in silent solidarity. Adam paused.
“Not yet, lad,” he finally said. “Just trust me.”
Ed gritted his teeth. His fists twitched.
“«Trust me»?” He looked at the magician as if trying to see right through him. “It's easy to say when you know everything. What if we're trapped again? Alone. No exit. Will you still say it's «too early»?”
Mia looked down, but only for a moment. The coolness in Adam's voice was beginning to annoy her, too. When she spoke, her soft voice was sharper than a scream.
“Do you always say that? When people are scared? When they ask for help? Just drop "trust" and turn away?”
The magician looked at her. His eyelids fluttered, the first real gesture of the entire conversation. He was looking at Mia as if he was seeing her for the first time.
“That's not an answer,” she continued, lifting her chin. “It's like you're pulling away from us. We are not baggage that you carry with you. We also feel and want to know the truth.”
There was still a childlike softness in her voice, but a firmness was beginning to form beneath it, the kind that grows when a child is kept in the dark for too long. Ed looked back at his sister. Something new flickered in his eyes, maybe pride, or maybe just surprise that she'd said something he couldn't quite articulate. Adam said nothing. He just lowered his eyes a little and headed for the doorway that led into the darkness, calling again, again without explanation. Ed could feel Mia trembling, and he was trembling himself. But now there was no choice. If he stayed or argued again, Adam would just leave. And to remain in this place without him, without any support, was more frightening than stepping into the darkness. The magician turned, pointing to the back of the room. A doorway yawned in the far corner. Nothing lay behind it but a dull, living darkness, thick as wax and just as sticky. Adam walked over and held out his hand, a stern look in his eyes that said, "Go ahead." Ed held his sister close and hesitated. Then he slowly held out his hand in return. Mia peered through the doorway and immediately recoiled. She froze in the doorway, as if she'd hit an invisible wall. Beyond the threshold was only darkness: no shape, no sound, no shadow. Just a viscous, living void. Her breathing quickened, and her chest tightened as if from cold, but the cold was coming from inside. Her hands trembled and her lips parted, but no words came out. Her body knew this fear better than her mind. She shook her head, and tears welled up in her eyes.
Ed turned to her. “It's okay, we're together…” But she was no longer present. She was drowning in her fear, in memories where the dark was the real enemy, and now she refused to go. Adam frowned, looking from the girl to the gaping doorway, then back at Mia. Tears were already rolling down her cheeks. Ed hugged her as tightly as he had on that night.
"What's wrong with her?" the magician asked in surprise.
“Can you…turn on the lights?” Ed muttered dully.
Adam shook his head.
"Is she afraid of the dark?" Adam asked softly.
“Yes… I'm sorry. She won't go.”
Adam walked slowly to the doorway where darkness seeped in. He stopped at the very edge, not crossing the threshold, as if he sensed that one careless move and they would pull away again. He could see Mia trembling and Ed looking at him warily, his whole body ready to shield his sister. Words were useless here. Promises in these walls sounded empty and could be broken as easily as the mirrors behind them. Then Adam took a small bag from his pocket and rolled it over in his fingers until tiny glass balls dropped into his palm. They shone with a soft, pulsing light. For a moment, there was a feeling in the air familiar to anyone who had ever sat around a campfire listening to fairy tales. He didn't explain or coax, just squatted down to their level and scattered the balls on the floor in front of the entrance to the corridor. The light from them was faint, not enough to dispel the darkness, but it drew fine lines in it, like a path. Adam traced it with his finger, suggesting a route. It wasn't a trap. Not a trick. It didn't require them to go; it just showed that the path could be a little less dark. Mia watched in silence, her face a war between fear and something else: doubt rising from the very depths. She didn't believe him, but she could see that he wasn't trying to force her, that this was something new. Ed stepped forward to stand next to his sister. His body tensed, and his eyes grew sharp. He didn't let go of Mia's hand. She squeezed his fingers, but not as convulsively as before. The light of the globes trembled with her breathing. Adam stayed where he was. He didn't say anything, just nodded slightly, as if acknowledging their right to be afraid. They stood in front of the darkness in a silence where even their thoughts were too loud. The light flickered teasingly: here's the path, but it's up to you to decide. Ed took a slow step, as if he were stepping on thin ice over black water instead of on the floor. He tightened his grip on his sister's hand. Mia followed hesitantly, as if only together they could get off the ground. Inside, everything was taut as a string. No one fully believed. There was fear in everyone, not of the dark, but of this strange adult with his all-too-correct words and a look that often slipped away. Doubt whispered: what if it's just another trick? A new trap? But staying was scarier. Behind them were mirrors with vivid reflections, events from which one wanted to escape. Ahead, the darkness was different. Mia walked a short distance and looked back. Adam stood his ground, not hurrying, not pushing. There was a tired look on his face, something quiet, almost human. Trust is not just a light that turns on with a click; it is born slowly, through anxiety, step by step. Ed didn't want to go, but he knew it would be much worse to wait. He clasped his sister's hand in his own, as if to hide everything that was still fragile in him. Her small, warm hand trembled, but it held his fingers without a shadow of doubt; she was not following the light or the magician, but him. And this belief burned brighter than any responsibility. He held his breath so that she wouldn't hear his chest tremble. The footsteps were heavy, as if he had to fight his way through his own shadow. The light of the globes reflected in their eyes but did not touch the soul; it was still dark there. Ed didn't feel brave. He wasn't ready. But he knew Mia was right there, right behind him. There was tension in her movements, but no hesitation. She trusted him; you could feel it in every touch, in every step she took , trusting him with her vulnerability. Ed's back straightened a little more. The uncertainty didn't disappear but gave way to something else, something that didn't need to be strong. Mia walked slowly, looking at the walls. The spots on them turned into scribbles, the scribbles into drawings. They appeared as if by themselves under the flickering light. Some were naive and joyful. Others were anxious, with distorted faces and dark spots, as if drawn in fear. Suddenly she stopped. One drawing stood out: a girl with dark hair standing on a blank background, clutching a bright red balloon in her hand. Next to it was a blurry shape. It was either a tent or something more, streaks and lines like the remnants of something important that had disappeared, leaving only a ghost. Mia froze. Something about the image stung her. When she looked closely, she saw that the girl's eyes were simple dots, her lips a slight thin line, but there was a loneliness in the pose, in the way she held the balloon. Who is she? Who drew it? Why is she standing alone in front of a vanishing something? Ed walked over in silence, standing beside her. Mia didn't turn around, but she could feel his presence. It was as if the drawing was looking at them with its whole erased world, asking for something. Mia ran her fingers along the edge of the image. The rough surface. Just below it was an erased chalk inscription; only a few letters had survived. It was impossible to read. They stood in silence, and the drawing seemed to breathe with them. Ed leaned forward, looking at the blurry lines. A tent? A house? Or just a trick of the imagination? Footsteps from behind. Adam sauntered over to stand behind them, hands clasped behind his back. His normally stern face changed, and his eyes softened as if he recognized something familiar. Silence fell between them; no one wanted to ruin the moment with words. Adam took a half step forward. His eyes flickered to the balloon, the blurry background, and then back to the girl. He tilted his head, as if listening to something inside, and ran his fingers over the drawing. Ed and Mia were silent, but the presence of an adult, for the first time not pressing but just being there, was surprising. Adam looked down, meeting Ed's eyes. No command, no pressure, just a subtle softness. His gaze shifted uncomfortably to the picture, and his fingers froze an inch from the wall, as if he was afraid to touch it, as if he recognized the lines but didn't dare admit it, even to himself. Ed was taken aback: the magician didn't seem like a stranger. Mia looked at the drawing again. The girl with the balloon was still standing alone. But now, in the shadow of the three silent figures, her loneliness seemed less. Mia's fingers went to the blur, wanting to finish it, to give the girl her world back. But there was no chalk or paint at hand. Adam, as if guessing her thoughts, took off his top hat and took out an old wooden pencil case. He opened it carefully, as if it were something very personal. Inside were colored crayons and pastels, battered but still bright. He handed it to Mia without a word. She looked at him in surprise, then at the crayons, her lips twitching. She picked up the red one and went to the wall, carefully drawing lines, reconstructing what might never have happened. A building? A lantern? A house you'd like to own? Ed hesitated, then selected a dark blue crayon. He stood next to her and added a path going deep into the drawing. The creak of chalk on the wall, the tilt of their heads, the intensity of their gazes changed, and the silence between them was different, like a pause in music. Adam didn't interfere. He stood off to the side, watching. For the first time, there was no mystery in his gaze, only weariness and, if you looked closely, a faint gratitude that they had accepted the crayons. When the drawing was finished, Mia stepped back. The tent was crooked, but now the girl wasn't standing alone, as if she was waiting for someone. Ed touched his sister's shoulder. Mia smiled out of the corner of her mouth. She didn't know who the girl was, but she didn't look lost anymore. The corridor, still dim and unsettling, became a little brighter. They moved on. The light of the globes flickered as if tired. Shadows slid across the walls, children's drawings giving way to peeling plaster. Mia was still holding her brother's hand, but now she kept an eye on Adam ahead of her. His silhouette in the dim light looked longer than it was. Tailcoat, top hat, movements was as always. And yet he had changed. After stopping at the drawing, something new appeared in him. Mia noticed the faint smile on his face, as if he'd briefly allowed himself to remember something precious. And then there was a deep sadness, hidden behind the usual severity. The girl stepped closer. Adam saw it out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. Mia studied his face hesitantly, and then, with her usual gentleness, she spoke softly, almost in a whisper, so that no one else could hear.
“Did you recognize the girl?”
He stilled for a split second, not turning around. Only his shoulders stiffened slightly. There was no response. She waited, not taking her eyes off him. Adam took another step forward. Then the second one, just kept going. Mia lowered her eyes. Not because she was offended, but because she felt that the question was premature. Still, a slight shiver remained inside her. Curiosity mixed with empathy. Beside her, Ed squeezed her hand a little tighter, not asking any questions. And the corridor was still going on. The light flickered a little more, then faded again. Like breathing in a dream. Only the silence spoke louder than words. There was a door at the end of the corridor, bright as if it had been carved out of a child's dream. Its surface was covered in splashes of all the colors of the rainbow, and the golden handle glittered like a small sun. The children approached slowly. Their little lights twirled around as if they were saying goodbye, dancing for the last time. Mia whispered thanks to everyone, and Ed bowed his head in gratitude. It was warm. Even a little fun, as if these lights were real friends, even if they were just tiny. As if hearing their goodbyes, the lights made a synchronized, slightly mischievous pirouette and went out. For a moment, everything was dark. Just breathing and silence. But in that pause, there was a click, and the magician opened the door. Behind it was a room. Not just a room, but another dressing room, as if from another world. Unlike the rest of the tent, which was ramshackle, whispering with old creaks and tattered velvet, this place seemed almost new. There was no dust, no oblivion. The space breathed a warm, comfortable silence. The room was almost like a living room—spacious, bright. At the very end of the room was a small table with a large mirror in an elegant frame. On the surface lay old, already used-up cosmetics: shadows, powder, lipstick, as if waiting for someone's hand. Three glass bottles of perfume stood nearby, all empty but still fragrant. Not a speck of dust on any of them. There was something touching about it. It was as if someone had taken great care to keep them beautiful. To the right stood a battered sofa, stained all over. Its softness was evident in the uneven pillows, even though the upholstery was torn in several places, and tired springs protruded in the corners. Next to it was a screen with a picture of a spring forest: green crowns of trees, a path, a stream. Behind it was a collection of stage costumes, ragged and spangled, but shining as if each of them still held a moment of applause. But on the left, on the left, there was a miracle. A faint haze of steam gave off the smell of something floral, warm. And right in the dressing room, as in a capricious fantasy, there was a lake. The real thing is big, with a smooth surface of water and soft light reflecting the lotus petals swaying on the waves. Steam slowly rose up, touching the ceiling. The water seemed hot, almost inviting, and yet somehow alien, not exactly meant for bathing. It was more than water, more than a pond, more like a dream. The room was alive, and she felt the breath of the past, not abandoned, but preserved. Carefully. And it made her chest feel strange. Quietly. Almost sacred. Mia entered first, letting go of her brother's hand. She tiptoed across the floor, as if afraid of disturbing the place with her footsteps. Her eyes darted from the shiny suits to the old sofa, from the mirror to the water. She paused by the lake, leaning forward a little, catching the soft, warm steam on her face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and her eyes were wide, with that rare expression when fear recedes before a miracle. Ed, on the other hand, stayed close to the center of the room. He looked around carefully, listening to himself. There was no creaking, no draft. Here, oddly enough, there was a sense of security. Almost like when you were a kid, hiding under the covers and pretending the world couldn't find you. His gaze lingered on the perfume bottles, three, all empty, as if someone had exhaled memories to the last drop. He walked over to the couch, pressed it gently with his hand, and it bounced a little, but it didn't creak. He sat down. He listened for sounds outside the room. Silence. A strange, fragile silence. The magician was silent all this time, leaning against the doorjamb as if he wasn't in a hurry to break anything either. His gaze was calm, but not indifferent. He watched the children soak up the atmosphere. And there was more to that look than just concern. There was a wariness there, as if he didn't quite believe in the possibility of peace himself. Mia went to the screen. Her fingers slid over the sequins of one old suit. She held her breath for a moment. The glitter reflected in her pupils. Her brother was there. It gave her strength. They couldn't find the words.
"It's beautiful here," Mia whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.
Ed nodded, and the magician allowed himself to just stare. No instructions, no secrets. He was just there. But the silence of this room was not eternal. Something in the depths, under the surface, in the mirror, in the water, in the smell of perfume, told them that they had not yet reached the main point. They were just given a break for now. The couch not only looked uncomfortable; it felt it, too. The old upholstery pricked, and the protruding springs dug uncomfortably into his sides. Ed winced, shifted, and finally stood up, rubbing the small of his back lightly. He took a step to the side, and his gaze was caught by the wall opposite, where posters hung, as if forgotten by time: bright but faded, covered with ornate slogans — "Great show!", "Night of Miracles!", "One night only!". A small, almost imperceptible black-and-white photograph was lost among them. Yellowed with age, with frayed edges, it seemed to hide from the eyes, but at the same time beckoned with something real. It was a photo of eight people. They were standing in a row, dressed in beautiful costumes, some with a hat in their hand, some with a wand. Everyone was smiling, looking straight at the camera, beaming with warmth and confidence. Behind them is the tent, still new, fresh, as if breathing. But the ninth person attracted particular attention. He was standing off to the side. Thin and elderly, he didn't look at the camera. His head was turned to the smiling faces, not with envy, not with longing, but rather with quiet acceptance. It was as if he knew that his role was to stay out of the picture, even standing inside it. Ed walked slowly over, standing on tiptoe, trying to see the faces. But part of the photo was ruined; in one corner a piece was torn out, in the other the image was erased by time, leaving only blurred silhouettes. Questions wanted to escape from him, but at that moment he felt someone's presence behind him. He turned, startled, to find Adam standing behind him. Without the usual restraint. His face, normally stern and unruffled, now bore a sadness as old and blunt as a healed scar. He wasn't looking at the boy; he was looking at the picture. His eyes were tired, but there was something else in them, perhaps a touch of reconciliation.
“Who's in this picture, Mr. Adam?” Ed breathed softly, almost in a whisper, as if afraid of disturbing someone else's memory.
The magician didn't answer immediately. For a second that seemed like an eternity, he looked as if he were returning to that moment. Then he pulled away, as if closing an inner door.
“You don't have to know that. The less you know — the better you sleep.”
And suddenly something changed. A splashing sound came from the back of the room. At first it was light, as if someone had walked on water. Then a gurgle. Thick, wet, with an echo of something alien. Steam began to rise from the lake, which had recently been calm. The sweet, spicy smell was replaced by a sharp, swampy odor, like that of salt water in a thicket where no human foot has ever set foot. Ed and Adam turned. The surface of the water shuddered, swirled. The color turned a dull green, as if someone had mixed it with mud. And then a girl's head appeared. Water ran down her seaweed-like hair. Skin with a bluish tint, with iridescent scales on the neck and shoulders. She rose slowly, as if in no hurry. It was as if she had just stepped out of the tub, enjoying its warmth. Her eyes were closed, but only temporarily. When her eyelids lifted, she froze. There were guests standing in front of her. And one of them is familiar, recognized. There was a moment of silence between them as their eyes met and Adam took off his hat. Slowly, respectfully, he bowed his head in a low bow. She didn't answer, but a look of surprise, almost forgotten, crossed her face.
"Milady, greetings," Adam said calmly, bowing his head slightly.
"Adam, are you serious? What's with the formalities?" the woman chuckled, raising an eyebrow.
"I just wanted to be polite. But if you don't like it…"
"Who's that with you?" her gaze slid to the children. "What are your names?"
The children were silent. They stood motionless, alert, as if facing a wild animal. After the recent horror in the mirror maze, it was hard to trust adults. But despite her fear, Mia's eyes flashed with admiration. The woman looked fabulous to her, like a mermaid from one of her mother's stories where their voices were like birdsong and their hair smelled of sea salt and sun. But this mermaid was different. She didn't smell of light magic, but of something musty and sea-like. A fishy smell wafted from her, and the seaweed in her hair moved lazily, as if in water — alive, slippery. It was a miracle for Mia. The first time she had met a fairy-tale creature. Mesmerized, Mia took a slow step forward, her eyes fixed on the mysterious woman. Adam remained calm, showing no sign of concern; he seemed to trust the stranger completely. Dee gently placed her hand on Mia's head, stroking it, and smiling sincerely.
"You're so beautiful," Mia whispered with childish delight.
"Thank you, my dear. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. What's your name?"
"Mia."
"Nice to meet you, Mia. I'm Diana, you can call me Dee. And what a lovely dress you have. Did you make it yourself?"
"No, my mother gave it to me."
"Your mother has great taste. Does your friend want to meet me?"
Ed peeked out from behind Adam's shoulder. His face was grim, his eyes intense. His voice faltered as he finally muttered, “Hello…”
“That's my brother,” Mia said quickly.
Dee nodded, not offended, but actually smiled more broadly. Something soft, almost tender, flickered in her eyes. But the children were still wary. Suddenly, Dee's expression changed. She looked at Ed carefully. There was still dried blood above his lip. “Oh, God… you're hurt!” Dee frowned. "Come here, I'll help you."
Ed approached slowly, as if overcoming an invisible barrier. He stood beside her, alert, but not as frightened as before. Dee smiled warmly, her eyes suddenly bright with joy. She went back to the lake, scooped up some water in her hands, brought it back, and handed it to the boy. "Drink this," she said simply.
Ed hesitated, then took a sip. The water was surprisingly warm, as if it held summer in it. A calmness spread through his body, as if someone had washed the fear from the inside out, leaving only lightness. He blinked, surprised, and for the first time relaxed a little. Dee took Mia's hand and gently sat her down in front of the antique dressing table. In her hands was an antique comb with pearls that were dark with age, but still beautiful. She slowly began to brush the girl's hair, untangling the thin strands.
"It got tangled," she whispered. "We'll fix that now. You must be neat, Princess."
A soft voice came from behind them.
"Ahem… Dee, I'm sorry…"
She didn't turn around.
“Why is the child hurt, Adam?"
"I—"
“You don't have an answer, do you?"
“I don't think you'd want to know. We need to move, you know…"
"No,” she snapped.
“What do you mean 'no'?"
“That's what 'no' means. You won't go any further. The children will stay here. With me. They'll rest, get their strength back, and then maybe I'll decide what to do with you."
"But—"
"No 'buts'," she said, and turned slowly. "Sit down at the table.”
Adam didn't even argue. He just sat down in a chair, annoyed, and motioned for Ed to come over. The boy sat down uncertainly beside him, still sneaking glances at Dee. As soon as a lock of Mia's hair fell over her shoulder, combed and shiny, Dee put down the comb and moved smoothly to the table. A tea set was already standing there, as if it had appeared out of thin air. Thin cups with cracks, covered with dark spots, as if they hadn't been washed since the last century. The white porcelain was tarnished, but it had a strange, otherworldly charm. Dee poured the tea slowly, her movements perfectly smooth, almost ceremonial. She sipped, keeping her eyes on Adam. There was an awkward silence in the room. Mia held the cup in both hands, smiling slightly, and Ed looked at his cup warily, but said nothing. Adam didn't look at anyone. His fingers tapped monotonously on the table. Sometimes he glanced briefly at the walls where old circus posters and a faded photograph were dimly visible.
“Do you still keep them?” he asked softly.
“Yes. For memory's sake.”
Dee's eyes went to the dull faces on the faded posters. The dust had settled on the gloss, but the faces were still staring at nothing, and each of them was frozen with a cry, a laugh, or tears. Some of those memories were warm, like a ray of sunlight through a dusty window. But most of them were like shards of glass under the skin. Dee finished her last sip of tea and set the cup down on its saucer with a slight clink. Not even a muscle moved in her face — just determination.
"I'm coming with you," she said.
“What? No!” Adam raised his eyebrows in surprise and confusion.
"It's not up for discussion," Dee said firmly. “I'm coming with you.”
“Why on earth would you?"
“You brought me children who are wounded and scared. What guarantee is there that you won't lead them to ruin? I'll help you cross the lake. And then we'll see.”
Adam started to protest, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew it was useless to argue with her. Dee was already up. When she reached the water's edge, the lake responded: it began to bubble as if it were alive, its surface quivering like skin.
"Come on," she said without turning around.
The children and the magician reluctantly rose from the table. As they got closer to the water, Ed froze. His face paled. He clutched his sister's arm convulsively. Mia looked up at him, her eyes filled with fear but also determination.
“I won't let anything happen to you," she whispered. "I promise."
Ed nodded, but his fingers were shaking. He couldn't swim. Even when his father tried to teach him, it didn't work out. He almost drowned then. Since then, any body of water had been an abyss for him. Dee took the first step. Her body disappeared almost soundlessly under the surface, as if the water itself were calling to her. Adam took Mia's hand and led her in, and the lake swallowed them up slowly, like a shadow, drawing them under the surface where the other world began. Below the surface, everything was different: greenish-murky light, shimmering seaweed like moving fingers, and silence. Somewhere in the depths, half buried in sand and peat, lay an old, rusty car. Lonely. Unreal. It was as if it had fallen here from another time or dream. Ed swam with difficulty, shuffling his feet as if in a dream. He reached out to his sister, to Adam, but the water was sticky, dragging him down, cold. Adam tried to help, diving in from behind, and then it happened. Something snapped at his ankle. He twitched, but more seaweed wrapped around his other leg too. Then his chest. He couldn't break free. It was a trap. Mia lost her grip on her brother by accident, rushing to the magician's side. Ed kicked his feet frantically when he was alone, but then he felt the seaweed grab him. First the ankles. Then his thighs. Then darkness. He screamed into the bubbles. His body was pulled down. The sand opened up and sucked the boy in as if he'd never been there. Dee tried to dive after Adam, but didn't make it. The seaweed pulled the magician out of her sight, dragging him away without a chance. Mia thrashed her hands frantically, trying to swim, to fight, to resist. But the plants were alive. They twined, pulled, grabbed. Dee tried to break through to the girl, but soon she felt the flexible stems wrap around her, too. The lake did not forgive strangers.
***
"Hey, kid, are you okay?” A woman's voice broke through the fog, staccato and shaky. "Should I call an ambulance?"
Ed opened his eyes with difficulty. He was lying on the wet grass, cool and prickly, as if the ground itself were trying to hold him. Above him, the silhouette of a woman was blurred, like an old photo on a rainy day. Everything was hazy, as if wrapped in a blanket of sleep. He sat up slowly, staggering, one hand pressed to his temple. His head was ringing, but the pain was almost nonexistent. There were no memories. The place felt strange, unreal. It was a park. An ordinary city park, with wet ground, benches, and people. Someone was walking a dog. Two people were kissing under a tree. A baby in a stroller was crying. But it was as if all this was happening behind glass, the movements were slow, the sounds muffled, the faces blank. The woman crouched down next to him, looking at him with concern. She handed him a plastic water bottle, but he just shook his head.
“Where are your parents? Do you want me to call the police?"
"No , it's okay, thank you..."
She frowned slightly. "Do you remember where you live?"
He nodded, though he wasn't sure. Everything inside was hazy, unsteady. "My house… it's somewhere nearby. I'll get there myself. Thank you."
"Be careful, okay?"
"Sure..."
He got up and walked away, as if led by someone or something. His feet walked on their own. To the right, a baby was screaming hysterically in a stroller, and its mother was rocking it too fast, as if in a panic. Ahead, children were playing. One of them looked up for a moment, and Ed was startled: his face was as blank as a doll's. And then he saw his home. The windows were lit up, and music came from the half-open door, cheerful and warm. Ed ran, his heart beating faster, here was salvation, familiar, real. He hadn't noticed when he'd stepped onto the road. He didn't hear the horn. Only the white blinding light. Darkness.
***
A dull click. A dead-white light flashed overhead. The lamp flickered, as if it wasn't quite sure whether it should illuminate what was happening, and then it came on, flooding the room with a quivering, sterile glow. The walls were peeling, gray, and cold. The air smelled of hospital: iron, bleach, and something musty and unsettling, as if the room itself had long since grown tired of the grief that permeated it. A man sat in the middle. He was almost motionless. His fingers were locked together, his nails digging into the skin of his palms. His eyes were unfocused, fixed on a single point, somewhere between the present and something beyond. He had been in this position for a long time, not noticing how time was dissolving into the hum of the ventilation system. Finally, the door opened. A doctor appeared in the doorway. A man with a tired face and sunken eyes, as if every sentence he'd uttered in his life had left a permanent mark on his skin. He stepped inside and stopped.
"Are you Adam Hall?" His voice was as dull as paper dust.
Adam slowly raised his head.
"I... yes."
The doctor swallowed. He tried to find the words, but they seemed to stick in his throat like fish bones. “We're sorry. The birth was difficult. She started to bleed profusely. We did our best. The child was saved. But the mother-” He lowered his eyes. "We're very sorry.” The air in the room seemed to thicken. The walls closed in. Time stopped.
"What?" Adam's breath was barely audible. His lips trembled as if they were trying to form other words, but his voice betrayed him.
"I understand…” the doctor nodded. "You need time. I'll leave you alone.”
He went out, and the door closed slowly behind him, like a coffin lid. The light began to flicker. One… two… three… it lit up again, dimmer now, as if reluctantly. Adam was still sitting there. He wasn't crying. He wasn't even breathing or rather, he was breathing shallowly, as if he didn't want to disturb the air in the room. Suddenly, everything went dark. The light was gone. There was only one lamp left, far away at the end of a narrow hospital corridor that hadn't seemed to exist before. A woman's figure emerged from its amber, wavering glow. She stood still, almost lifeless, as if carved out of mist. The white hospital gown she was wearing was covered in blood from the waist down, dark and thick, spreading out like a drop of ink on paper. She slowly raised her head. Her hair was plastered to her face, and her eyes were blank. Her lips moved.
"Honey… let us go. Let go… let go… let go…”
At first, it sounded like a request. Then like a plea. Then like a verdict. The voice became more and more alien. It seemed to break up into dozens of voices: women's, men's, children's, all saying the same thing. They repeated it like a spell. Like a curse. It was as if every "let go" pulled something out from within him. The light flickered again, and the figure disappeared. In its place stood an old stool. A loop hung above it. It swayed from side to side as if someone had just left it. The voices continued to whisper. They were everywhere now: in the walls, under the floor, inside his head. They called out to him; they urged him to get up, to come over, to put his head in the noose. Adam stood up slowly, as if he were no longer in control of his own body. Step by step, he drew closer. There was no expression on his face, only emptiness. He stepped onto the stool, and the rough fiber of the noose brushed his neck. It was all in slow motion. He didn't resist, didn't think, just obeyed. The stool toppled over with a dull thud. The body hung limp. The voices faded.
***
"Mia! Mia, get up, stop sleeping!"
The voice seemed to cut through space. The girl screamed and jumped up in bed. Her chest was heaving, and her breathing was labored. She looked around; the room was both strange and painfully familiar. White curtains, soft carpet, a toy cabinet in the corner. Everything was in place. The sun's rays drenched the floor like gold dust, driving away the night's fears. Her mother was standing by the bed. Her face was tense, her lips pursed, and she was holding a ladle. Her stained apron showed that she had been on her feet for a long time.
“It's your brother's birthday, and you're sleeping like a log! I need your help with the cooking."
Her mother disappeared as quickly as she had come, leaving behind only the smell of frying butter and a nagging sense that something was wrong. It took Mia a moment to realize that she was curled up in the bedclothes. Sweat broke out on her forehead.
"So… it was a dream?" she mumbled, covering her face with her hands.
But the fear didn't go away. It was sitting somewhere deep inside, like a splinter. Something about this morning felt wrong. She slid off the bed and slipped her feet into her favorite pair of slippers with soft pink rabbit ears. It got warmer for a second. She went to the bathroom, automatically washing her face while looking in the mirror. Her face was ordinary. The kitchen was sizzling. The air smelled of butter, cinnamon, and something burnt. Her mother was rushing from the stove to the table, her face rigid, like a navigator facing a storm.
"Mia, run to the store. We're out of eggs."
"Can Ed come with me?" the girl asked, hoping for a positive answer.
"Ed's still asleep. Don't bother him. Money's on the cabinet."
The tone was cold, cutting. Not a drop of softness. Mia nodded silently and threw on her backpack. From the street, the smell of a summer morning hit her face: freshness, wind, the hum of cars. Everything seemed to be in order. She even tried to count the cars as before to calm herself. One… two… three… But on the seventh, she didn't notice how she crashed into a passerby. A man in a gray suit and a postman's cap.
"Open your eyes!" he snapped, grabbing his bag.
"I'm sorry," Mia whispered, lowering her gaze.
He left without looking back, leaving a crumpled newspaper on the sidewalk. The girl picked it up automatically. The paper was wet, sticky, like dew or something else. She unfolded it, and her heart skipped a beat. The first page.
"MASS DEATH OF
A CIRCUS TROUPE"
The picture of the tent was black and white, as if it had been taken decades ago. It looked abandoned, dilapidated. The headline seemed to whisper in her ear, becoming more threatening with each rereading. The newspaper fell out of her hands. Mia staggered back, covering her mouth, and ran. Tears stung her eyes. She didn't know where she was going; she just wanted to get away. But the street had changed: it wasn't her street anymore. She was standing in the park. And there, ahead, like an ominous stage set, stood the tent. Bloated, blackened, and twisted like a distorted mirror. Its fabric fluttered as if it were breathing. It smelled musty and damp, as if it had grown from the earth's rotten core. No lights, no sounds, just dead silence. Mia screamed and ran back, her heart pounding like a drum. She ran out onto the road without looking, past cars, past people. The world began to warp. The houses curved unnaturally. The trees bent as if reaching toward her. The birds froze in midair. And then came the light. Bright as hot iron. Headlights, a car, and a loud screech of brakes. She froze, mesmerized. Everything slowed down. The shadows reached out to her like hands. Someone was calling her name, but the voice was drowned out by the noise. Darkness.
***
The sound of running water could be heard long before the stream itself came into view. It was a hot summer; the air shivered over the path, and our clothes clung to our bodies. A group of teenagers, hot and happy, in bathing suits and towels, were running down the trail, laughing and overtaking each other. Everything seemed to sing: the sun, the sky, the trees. The day seemed infinitely bright, like a film overexposed in the sunlight. They dropped their belongings on the burnt grass and almost immediately plunged into the water, disappearing with a loud splash into the cool, murky depths. Splashes flew, laughter rang out; some screamed at the sudden rush of water, others shouted as they swam away.
"That's enough!" A woman's voice broke into a nervous chuckle. "My hair is already all wet!"
"Oh, come on, Diana," the guy said, grinning. "School starts soon. We need to have fun at last."
"You're right," she said.
He swam closer, his eyes glistening from the sun and something else. As he played, he splashed her hard in her face. Then another. Laughing. She winced and waved him away, but he didn't stop. And suddenly, in one motion, he grabbed her and pulled her down. She choked at the first moment, but she didn't even have time to be really scared, she thought: "He's playing… again." But he wouldn't let go. His hands were gripping her shoulders tightly, and his face was twisted into a strange smile, strained, frightening. She began to struggle. There was no air left in her lungs. Pain. Panic. And then silence. Her body sank gently to the bottom, not resisting. Her hair floated around her like seaweed. Her skin was rapidly turning pale. Something swam by a fish, garbage, a piece of seaweed. No one shouted or called. Diana was forgotten. Forever.
She surfaced abruptly, gasping wildly, as if she'd come back from hell. Before her was the familiar lake again: dead, dark, rotten. The water was almost black, and the light was drowned in it. Body parts poked out from under the muddy bottom: strangers, acquaintances. Children's. Sand was being torn from the edges. Ed's hand. Mia's leg. The brim of Adam's hat. All three of them lay like discarded dolls, half-buried, forgotten. Diana, shivering all over, pulled them out one by one, dragging them along the slippery bottom. A wave of stench rose from the sand, as if the lake itself was resisting her. With difficulty, choking with fear, she dragged them to the huge, black exit pipe. A moment later, they hit the stone floor with a crash. Water gushed out from above, hitting them like a blow. The bodies lay heavily, as if lifeless. Diana bent over each of them, working mechanically, pressing, turning, praying to herself. Ed coughed first. His breath came out in a rush, a gush of water and panic. He opened his eyes and saw Diana fighting desperately for the others. Then Adam stirred. Then more quietly, almost noiselessly, Mia. But she didn't speak. She didn't look at anyone. She sat down, curled up like a broken toy, her eyes blank and wet with fear. Dee went over to her and cautiously held out her hand, but Mia jerked away, stood up, and took a few steps back. She looked at Diana as if she no longer believed her, herself, or reality.
"What's wrong?" Dee's voice was shaky, but she took a step forward.
"Don't touch me!" Mia screamed, recoiling as if she'd been burned. Her voice cut through the air like a blade.
Dee stopped abruptly. There was a look of bewilderment in her eyes, which quickly turned to concern. The girl stood like a statue, her eyes wide and filled with horror, not childish fright, but something deeper, as if she had seen something that could not be explained.
"Where are the guarantees?" Adam's voice cut through the silence. He turned to Dee, and his eyes were now filled with anger mixed with impotence. "What guarantee is there that we won't all lie down here? Look at her!"
"I don't understand," Dee muttered, looking around helplessly. "This… this has never happened before."
“And you still haven't changed your mind?” The magician's voice was as cold as steel.
"No," she said firmly, though there was a note of alarm in her voice, as if she doubted her own words.
Adam's hands tightened viciously on his chest. His lips twitched, but he didn't say a word. Instead, his eyes fell back on the children. Ed was shivering as he wrapped his arms around his sister's waist, pressing his body against hers as if trying to keep her here in this world. Mia remained as still as a marble figure, not blinking, not moving. Only her lips moved ever so slightly, silently repeating something to herself. The magician started to reach for her, then stopped, pulling his hand away as if he had changed his mind at the last moment. He looked away.
"Ed… keep an eye on her, okay?" his voice softened.
"But … what about her? Why is she like this?" Ed sobbed, burying his face in her side.
"I—" Adam lowered his eyes. “I don’t know. But we can't stop. In any case.”
The silence hung between them, uneasy and hollow, like a hidden animal. A few paces away was another door. It was old, wooden, and cracked, with rusty hinges. It seemed to be holding on with all its strength and would crumble to dust at a single touch. Warm, musty air crept out from under the cracks. The third door opened.
Chapter 4: The clown who cries. Part 1
Chapter Text
The light creak of the old door cut through the silence, a frail sound in the tense space. The previous silence was shattered. The man, still keeping his eyes on the despondent children, did not notice the lack of stairs and stepped into empty air. Fortunately, the fall was surprisingly gentle; he landed in a pool filled with small, colorful plastic balls. Dee ran over, looking down worriedly. When she was sure he was all right, she let out a sigh of relief. She wanted so badly to reach out and win back her child's trust, but Ed was the only one who still trusted her. Mia, on the other hand, stayed behind her brother, holding on to him like a shield. The boy stood up, continuing to protect his sister as she refused to let go. Dee motioned to them to be careful, then sat down first on the bright yellow slide so she could be there to catch them at the bottom. Ed leaned close to Mia and whispered something reassuring.
"Close your eyes if you're scared. Let's make a steam train, remember?”
They remembered the warm days on the playground, when their mother would talk to the neighbors and they would play until their cheeks were flushed and their clothes were damp with sweat. They'd get scolded, but it didn't matter because it was fun. Mia sat on top, Ed on the bottom. The girl smiled for a moment, and they slid down into the ball pool, where the adults were waiting. Dee noticed the smile and felt a flicker of relief. But the joy quickly turned to alarm as Mia tensed up again. Her gaze darted between the magician, Dee, and the surroundings until she noticed a small passageway enclosed by a net, hidden in the maze. Adam got up, dusted off his suit, and looked around. Everything looked different from the last time, as if the maze itself was changing, alive, moving. He asked the children to follow him, even though he wasn't sure of the right direction through the dimly lit space. A few weak lamps cast a cold gloom, as if night had enveloped the entire building. He wanted to find a light switch, but it was nowhere to be found. The room was a labyrinth of mesh corridors, platforms on the second and third floors, and soft mats, all meant for the safety and fun of kids, but now feeling like a trap. Adam looked up: the narrow openings leading to the third floor were too small for any of them to get through. He beckoned to Ed. The boy was still holding Mia's hand tightly, and she didn't want to let go, hiding her face in fear. Only Ed approached Adam, who asked him to go upstairs and look for a light source. He promised to keep an eye on his sister. But Adam had to gently pull the boy from Mia's tight embrace. She whispered for him to go with his brother. Ed looked at the adult, then back at his sister, and held out his hand.
"Let's go together."
On the second floor, Mia peeked down; the magician wasn't following them. She watched him and Dee, both standing very still below. The second floor held only soft equipment: geometric pillows, tunnels, and slides. Their target was the third floor; maybe there was a light there. They made their way to the top to find a huge trampoline and a pillow arena, a place for children's fights. But even here, no lights, no switches.
"Nothing here, either. Let's go back," Ed said.
There was no response. He turned, but Mia wasn't there.
"Mia?" he called. "Where are you? Mia!"
A pillow hit him hard on the head. From the shadows ahead, laughter. Mia was standing there with a new "bomb" ready. The second pillow hit him squarely in the face. Ed collapsed on the floor, giggling. He grabbed a pillow and threw it back. He missed. Mia ran away laughing, sliding down the slide to the second floor, just evading her brother's grasp. They raced through the maze until they came to a dark passage. Mia froze. The amusement faded from her face. One breath in, one breath out. Ed caught up with her and touched her shoulder.
"Gotcha!" he said, laughing.
But Mia wasn't laughing. She fiddled with her fingers, looking down. The words stuck in her throat. Ed crouched down, taking in her every emotion. She took a deep, shaky breath.
"Eddie, have you always believed me?"
“Of course. What's the matter?”
“Even when Mom said I was lying?"
"Mia, what are you trying to tell me?"
“We need to run. Seriously. We must not go back to them.”
“Why?”
"Because... they're not alive!"
He froze.
“Are you kidding?"
"No, Eddie. We're walking with the undead. I saw it!”
“Where? What did you see?"
Mia described in detail what she had seen while unconscious under the water. Ed was in shock. He tried to convince her that it was just fear, a hallucination. But Mia was crying. Her hysteria shook everything inside her. She begged him to leave, to run, not to go back. She was convinced it was all a trap, that the rescue was a performance. Ed struggled with the idea, but fear began to creep into his mind. What if she was right? He grabbed Mia's arm and ran into the aisle. It was dark. Thick, impenetrable. He held one arm out in front of him, the other clutching his sister's hand. She asked him to let go. He did. They walked into the darkness, one step at a time. Mia was breathing steadily, fighting panic; the last time there were lights in the dark space with her, but this time she had to face it on her own. They walked for what felt like an eternity. Meanwhile, at the bottom of the maze on the first floor, the magician and Dee waited anxiously. Adam paced back and forth, looking nervously up at the platforms. He was clearly stressed from the long wait. Dee asked him to calm down and sit, but he refused, saying he wasn't tired.
"Maybe they found something that took them so long," Dee said calmly.
“Then they'd have come back to report it, wouldn't they?" Adam snapped.
"Should we start worrying?" she asked.
"I don't think we can make it there, but we'll find another way," he replied.
Meanwhile, in the darkness, Ed and Mia saw a dim glow at the end of the corridor, light seeping from under a keyhole. The door opened softly. They went in. It was a room hung with red curtains, like a series of fitting rooms. Each one contained a torn poster with a face cut out. Nearby, inscriptions were scrawled on the walls: "Loser!", "Fat!", "Stupid!". Random objects were scattered about: a ball, skittles, a spoon, a small suit. From afar came crying, not from children, but an adult's cry. At the end of the hall sat a clown. Fat, with a rainbow wig and a red nose. He was sobbing at a small table. In front of him was a framed photo of an elderly woman. Ed shielded his sister behind him and started to back away. Clearly, they shouldn't have come in here.
"Wait...," the clown sobbed. “Are you leaving too?"
They were silent as they continued to retreat, hoping the stranger wouldn't follow. The clown got up, knocked over the table, picked up the frame, and put it in his pocket. The children immediately dove for the nearest shelter.
“Where are you?"
He was looking for them, still crying, though less intensely now. Ed was sitting in the farthest closet of one the fitting rooms, covering his own mouth and Mia's, sometimes even holding their breath. The man's heavy footsteps could be heard. He moved slowly, without bending down, looking around the room.
“Come out, please. I don't like hide-and-seek, but I do like guests. Would you like some tea?"
Strangely, there was a hint of sincerity in his voice, but it felt either very fake or well-practiced. Their closet door swung open. Ed kicked the clown in the stomach and they ran. The man just fell to the floor and started crying again, harder than before. Mia stopped her brother, paying attention. She came closer. Carefully. She held out her hand. Ed clenched his fists, ready for another blow, but the clown seemed harmless. The man looked at the girl with hope.
“What are you doing? We need to run!” Ed said sourly.
"Wait, look at him," Mia said plaintively. "Mister? Are you alright?"
“W-why are you r-running? D-did I d-do something b-bad?” The man turned to them, sobbing.
Mia cautiously held out her hand. The clown made no move to harm her; he just lay on the floor holding his stomach where Ed had hit him. The boy still did not trust this man and gestured for his sister to move away, but the girl decided to put her hand on his shoulder, wanting to calm him down. Finally, the clown looked at her with a sad, hopeful look. He immediately smiled, seeing that he wasn't being feared or shunned. He jumped up with a happy face, shaking Mia's hand and thanking her endlessly. He invited them to his table.
“What kind of tea do you prefer? I love red! I'm Martin, and what's your name?" he asked enthusiastically.
“I'm Mia, this is my brother Ed. We're a little lost, can you help us?"
"Let's have some tea, and then you can tell me how you got here."
It might not have been a good idea to have tea with a stranger in clown makeup, but somehow Mia felt she could trust him. He was as warm as an old blanket: kind, childlike, and a little sad. He wasn't pretending to be harmless; he genuinely was. Tired, but not scary. The room they were in seemed like a secluded island in the chaos of the maze. Dusty curtains fluttered in the draught, and a lamp with a cracked shade flickered in the corner, casting shadows on the wall. From the old gramophone came a faint, raspy sound, as if from childhood, from a distant past where people still believed in miracles. Ed looked at his sister in disbelief. Just a few minutes ago, she'd been running for her life, and now she was sitting at a worn round table, its tablecloth strewn with crumbs and faded patterns. Next to her was a clown: smiling, with trembling hands. Ed could feel the anxiety, but there was something new on Mia's face: calmness, inner strength. She no longer seemed like just a little sister to him. More like a partner. Or even a guide. Reluctantly, he sank into a creaking chair. The wooden legs crunched threateningly under his weight. The clown, meanwhile, returned with a tray on which cups and spoons jingled in time with his gait. A porcelain teapot steamed sweetly, filling the room with the scent of bergamot and something else — candy, honey, maybe cinnamon.
“How much sugar, my dears?" the clown asked with genuine joy, as if receiving old friends. "I'll take one spoon myself, no more!"
He poured the tea as though performing a sacred ritual. The room slowly filled with comfort, as if invisible walls were pushing the anxiety away, leaving only light and warmth within their small circle. He began to tell stories — silly, funny, sometimes strange, with unexpected twists. And the children even laughed. For real. Meanwhile, somewhere far away, in another, almost forgotten layer of this world, Adam and Dee were crawling through the maze. Icy wetness dripped from the ceiling, as if the stone itself was crying. The dim light beat against the dusty darkness, fading away, leaving only ragged shadows and golden spots on the peeling walls. Somewhere in the depths, a barely audible, eerie creak. The passageways narrowed, grew rusty and mildewy, turning into tunnels whose walls seemed to breathe slowly, as if they were peeping. The air was getting thick and heavy, with a cloying smell of rot, wet wood, and something sweetly dead. Everything was whispering here. Not with words but with presence. The corridors themselves seemed to be talking behind their backs, reaching out to them, laughing silently. Adam walked almost blindly, his hand groping for ledges on the walls. Every step felt like a dream. He called out to the children. Shouted. But his voice was lost in the maze, disappearing as if the walls were swallowing it up. Dee stumbled, scratched her hands, fell and got up, muttering something to calm herself, but her words faded in the air like ash in water.
"They're here… They've got to be here somewhere…" he whispered, not to her, but to himself.
At some point, he sat down. The floor was icy cold. The dampness chilled to the core. Adam closed his eyes. Breath. A slow, broken exhalation. Dee sat down beside him. She pulled up her knees and hugged herself. She wanted to touch him, put a hand on his shoulder, but something stopped her. He seemed as still as a rock. Deaf. Closed.
"Hey, we'll find them. Do you hear? They'll be fine. I believe." Dee's voice was low, but there was hope in it, like a flame in a draught.
“Why are you always so calm?" Adam said, as if afraid to scare himself. "What if someone else found them? What if I didn't make it in time again?"
“Why should I believe in your outcome?" There was a sharp edge in her voice. "You always expect the worst, Adam. Always. Don't you get tired of it? You're not iron. Stop carrying everything on your own. I can't stand to watch you gnaw on your insides anymore."
“I'm just trying... to fix things," he spoke as if the words came through pain, like footsteps on broken glass. “Am I doing it so badly?"
"Adam, it's not your fault. None of what happened was. «She» wouldn't want to see you like this."
"No…," he shook his head. "No, you don't understand. You don't get it.”
"Then explain it to me. But please, stop punishing yourself. Look around; it's a vicious circle. You're playing a role in a play that's long been over."
She paused, looking out into the darkness. Then, quietly:
"Think about why I'm still with you.”
Adam wanted to say something. A name, a word, a request but it all stuck somewhere between his throat and his heart. Tears rolled down Dee's cheeks. She had been silent for too long. She had kept it all to herself. She had hoped she could tell him everything, just like that, right to his face. And now her voice had betrayed her, and only her tears spoke for her. It might have been only a small part of her soul's cry, but it had given rise to a revelation. He stared at her, confused, depressed, crushed by his own guilt. His heart sank. He held out his hands. He hugged her. She buried her face in his shoulder and cried louder. Tears stung his skin through the fabric.
"I'm sorry, Dee," he breathed almost soundlessly.
***
“Do you like your tea? Maybe some more?” The clown peered hopefully into their cups, holding his battered teapot in both hands like a jewel.
“No, thank you! It's delicious. But better yet, tell us another story!” Mia said excitedly, hugging her knees. Her eyes were bright.
"Really?" The clown straightened up. His eyes widened. “You're actually interested in my stories? No one has ever asked me before. You're really touching my heart. I'm probably going to cry right now."
“Please don't!” Mia leaned forward a little. “I think you've done enough crying."
“You think so?" Martin nodded, sniffing. “Ok. I won't cry. Do you want me to tell you about Granny?”
"Your grandmother?" Ed asked, frowning slightly.
“Yeah. My grandma. See?” He reached into his pocket and carefully pulled out the photograph, the one he'd cried over so bitterly when they'd first met. "Her name was Hayley. She raised me. You have parents, don't you? I didn't. Just my grandmother. She took care of me.”
"You must miss her a lot," Mia said softly.
Martin's voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes filling with tears again. “I lost her a long time ago… but this picture is all I have left. It's the only thing that reminds me of her face. I always cry when I look at it. We were supposed to be together, but I'm stuck here. I don't know how to get out.”
Ed leaned forward, his voice harsh. “You don't know how to get out? So, we were wasting our time? Is that what you wanted, Mia?"
"Eddie, that's enough," Mia said sternly. “He's in the same situation as us. He just… seems to have given up. Have you tried leaving this room?” she asked Martin.
The clown shuddered. "It's scary out there. So dark. And the voice… it's awful. It's like it's always breathing down my neck."
“Were there any other doors? There must be more exits,” Mia pressed.
“No… I haven't thought about it.” Martin froze, then slowly raised his head. A spark of hope lit in his eyes. “That's a great idea! I could find my way to Grandma! You want to get out too, don't you?”
"Of course," Mia said, smiling softly.
"Then let's search together!"
***
"It feels like we're walking in circles," Adam said irritably, looking around. “And my back is killing me from all these damn twists and turns."
"Oh, come on," Dee said calmly, without breaking stride. "We're barely five minutes from where we started. You're worse than the kids."
"Don't compare me to kids," Adam grumbled, though a hint of a chuckle was in his voice. "Their parts aren't worn out like mine.”
Dee gave him a quick, attentive, slightly amused look.
"You're not falling apart," she said, her voice a notch softer.
"No?" He stepped closer, a challenge in his eyes. "What am I doing then?"
She held his gaze for a moment longer, the amusement in her eyes replaced by something unreadable. The air between them grew still.
"Let's go," she said, finally turning away. "And try to keep the complaining to a minimum."
"You won't hear a peep," he promised.
Their course changed without them noticing. They walked in silence, step by step, led further from their intended path. Instead of the usual right turn, they turned left. It was as if an unseen hand had gently corrected their route, as if the maze itself had shifted its thoughts, revealing new nooks, shadows, and rustles. The stone walls narrowed and opened again, the dim light barely licking the floor. A few laps, one turn, another, a disorienting sense of déjà vu. But something was off. And then, abruptly, they stepped into a vast, almost bottomless room. The high ceiling was swallowed by darkness, the walls shrouded in a deep gloom. Everything was blurred at the edges, like a forgotten memory. Only one thing was clearly visible: a single spotlight. Its yellow, dusty glow illuminated a section of decaying seats and a circular area at the center. Dust motes, kicked up by their footsteps, swirled smoothly in the beam of light, dancing in the air like tiny spirits.
"Is this… an arena?" Dee whispered.
Adam froze. Something clicked in his chest, a subtle but palpable shift. He frowned, his body tensing. The arena sprawled before him, a familiar, sickening sight. He knew this place or a phantom of it. She had been left behind at the very beginning of their journey. Was it all starting again? But the gaze that clung to every detail offered no reassurance. It wasn't her. It was ridiculously, shudderingly similar, but not the real thing. A copy. A ghost. An illusion. Every last cog was reproduced with near-perfect accuracy: the seats with crushed cushions, the peeling barriers, the circle of the playpen. Even the smell: woody, with a faint note of rot, as if the fabric had been buried in damp earth was the same. At the heart of this deceptive space stood a small table, lopsided and peeling like a forgotten exhibit from a museum. And on it, a radio. It was small and time-worn, with a wooden case, faded buttons, and a cracked handle. It looked as if it had resided here longer than the air itself. Yet he knew it. He recognized it instantly. The one he used to fall asleep to in a distant house, alone, with only a lantern on the bedside table. The rustle of broadcasts, the announcer's voice, a waltz from a distant time, it all flooded back into his memory, a crack opening in a long-walled-up door. He stepped forward, barely breathing. The spotlight's glare was harsh, sticky, almost physically palpable. It stung his eyes, bit into his pupils. The walls seemed to shift, slowly closing in, squeezing the air. This place was alien, as if constructed from the stolen blueprints of his own past. He touched the button silently. He felt the chill of the metal, alive, pulsing. And in response — a click. Then, sound. At first, light as a breath. A thin, barely audible laugh. One voice: sparkling, carefree, like drops on a sunny day. Then another, ringing like a bell. They intertwined, the sound of children chasing soap bubbles, happiness dripping from the air. And then, a waltz. An old one. Familiar. It seemed to drift from the end of a long tunnel, from a forgotten time. The laughter stopped. Everything snapped like a taut thread. A scream shattered the silence. Not just a scream but a shriek. Piercing, inhuman, full of a pain so profound it felt like it could crack bone. Adam staggered back. The air grew viscous, thick with a dark, suffocating sludge. And amidst the crackling and hissing crying. Real, desperate, unbearably alive. A cry utterly devoid of hope. Just a raw, rasping plea. He couldn't distinguish words, but he felt their meaning in every cell of his body. Out there, beyond the static, someone was calling. Calling him. With a desperate, hopeless faith. Calling as one does for the very last time. And then, another voice. Dull, heavy, as if born from damp soil. It held no sympathy, only a predatory weight. It uttered something menacing, drowning out the first. Doom. Adam flinched. Something inside him snapped like a rusted cable. He stumbled back, tripping over his own breath. His fingers trembled. He stared at the radio as if it were a living thing, as if claws had just sunk into his very core. He grabbed it. With a savage, almost animal growl, he hurled it to the floor. Splinters of wood shattered and crunched under his feet. He stomped on the wreckage, furious, as if he could destroy not just the object, but everything it had awakened. Again and again, until nothing remained but rubble and a ringing silence. And then he stopped. His body went limp. He slowly knelt down, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. His arms wrapped around the shattered remains, gently, almost pleadingly, as if a soul might still be trapped within. And then came the tears. Not a sob. No. This was an internal rupture, a fault line from which pure pain flowed. A single tear traced a path down his cheek, onto his hand, onto the floor. He made no move to stop it. He just sat there, hollowed out.
"Adam?" Dee's voice was soft, barely a whisper.
She didn't come closer. She stood at the edge of the shadow, as if the darkness itself held her back. She understood. He was silent. Hunched over. He grasped his own shoulders, squeezing them tightly, as if trying to hold himself together, to prevent himself from crumbling into dust and fragmented thoughts. His fingers trembled, white with tension. And then the laughter again. Childish, cheerful, ringing. But distorted now, like a film reel spinning too fast. It echoed through the arena, crawling into his ears, under his skin, into his heart. The sound was everywhere, sourceless, no speakers, no bodies. Just a void saturated with voices. Hundreds. Thousands. They laughed as if at play, but it was unnatural, alien. Too loud. Too much. As if joy had been stitched together from scraps of someone else's fear. Adam's jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck taut like steel cables. He wanted to flee, to find shelter, to disappear but he couldn't. He slowly pushed himself up. He brushed the dust from his knees, a gesture that felt heavier than it should, as if he'd been kneeling for an eternity. He straightened his suit jacket, evenly, carefully, with immense effort. He adjusted his top hat. He looked at Dee. And in his eyes, there was no more confusion. Only a cold, grim resolution.
"We'll find the kids," he said. The voice is hoarse but firm. "It doesn't matter how. We'll find them."
***
"Did you find anything?" Martin called to the children from across the room. His voice trembled, as if he was afraid to hear the answer.
"Nothing," Ed said, gritting his teeth.
"So… so there's no other way out…" the clown stammered, retreating until his back met the wall. "Just through that door."
He pointed to the doorway, which smelled as cold as a grave. The darkness there seemed to have a life of its own. Dense and hostile.
"It's… it's very dark in there," he whispered. "Maybe… we're not going? Eh?"
"You wanted to get out," Ed said quietly, but with emphasis. "But first, we'll find something to help us get through the darkness. We're not going in there blindly."
"A flashlight!" Mia suddenly exclaimed, rummaging through a box of dusty dolls and pulling out an old lantern. Click. Light!
"Wow!" Martin brightened, as if he'd forgotten his fear for a moment. "It's working! We… we can get through! It's like a real miracle!"
Ed whirled around, squinting at him. "You've been sitting here all this time and haven't even tried to find it? It's been right there all along!"
Martin blinked in confusion.
"I... I didn't know it was here… I really didn't…" he cringed, as if preparing for a blow. "Please don't be mad. I was just… afraid. I've been here for so long. Alone, all this time alone…"
Mia switched on the flashlight. It worked, despite its ancient, battered appearance, as if it had been lying in the dust for years. A beam of light shot out, cutting through the thick darkness like a knife. Martin slowly pushed the door open and squinted, not daring to take a step outside. His entire being resisted, his body seemed rooted to the floor. Outside the room was a world he'd almost forgotten, frightening and unfamiliar. But the children were already moving forward, small figures walking confidently into the dark. Mia swung the flashlight around, the beam darting across the walls, picking out shapes that flickered and disappeared like ghostly faces in a dream. The clown moved behind them, awkwardly, hunched over, as if he were getting smaller, trying to hide in his own shadow. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead, cold and sticky. His shoulders were tense, his gait unsteady, and a knot of fear tightened in his chest, fear of the unknown, of simply stepping forward. Looking at the confident backs of the children, he suddenly felt himself in their place, not as an adult leading, but on the contrary. He was a confused boy, lost in a vast, strange place, following those who seemed to know the way. It seemed to him that if he lost sight of them, he would disappear, vanish into this corridor. Ahead of them, the girl looked back, and he saw the same fear that lived in him reflected in her eyes. They both seemed to sense the same shadow creeping along the walls behind them. The clown suggested she either climb onto his shoulders to feel safer, or pass him the flashlight with his height, the beam would light the way better. The girl chose the latter. The idea of putting her on his shoulders frightened her and embarrassed him. A faint sense of shame rose in Martin's chest. The flashlight passed into his hands. The beam became more confident, covering more space. The walls around them suddenly became clearer. They were covered with photographs in various frames: small and dusty, as if they had been forgotten for decades. Ed walked over to one of them, looking at it closely. They weren't paintings, but photographs, framed the way adults like to display them. The wallpaper was a marine shade with a striped pattern, peeling in places. The whole area now looked more like an old hallway than a maze corridor. Even the ceiling was covered with pictures. Martin stepped closer, his eyes wandering from one photo to the next. They were strange: blurry, sometimes torn, some with broken glass, others impossible to make out. Amidst the chaos, one frame suddenly caught his attention, a tiny one, almost hidden in a corner. It was a black-and-white photograph of a simple house. Nothing special, no luxury, no grandeur. An ordinary, almost boring house. But it was the one that snagged his gaze. The clown crouched down, peering. Something inside him shuddered. It was as if a switch had been flipped a muffled memory touching something vital. A single tear slid down his cheek. The children sat down next to him quietly, trying not to disturb him. Mia touched his arm lightly. The gesture needed no words. There was a strange, unexpected sympathy in her touch. Real, sincere, as if born in the very depths of a child's soul.
"Martin, are you all right?" she asked softly.
"I... don't know," he muttered. His eyes were fixed on the photograph, as if it was about to start moving. "It's just this photo, it reminds me of something. Something important."
"You don't remember?" her voice dropped to a whisper.
Martin shook his head, as if trying to shake the fog out of it. "Nothing at all. Empty. My head feels like cotton wool." He clenched his fingers into fists, as if trying to hold on to a single, fleeting thought.
"Give me the flashlight," she said to Ed, calmly but confidently, holding out her hand. He hesitated for a second before handing it over.
Mia swung the flashlight like a sword: sharp, fearless, purposeful. The beam of light darted into corners, soared up to the ceiling, slid along the walls, tearing fragments of dust, shadows, and emptiness from the darkness. Ed and Martin stood off to the side, confused by her frantic search. She continued, moving quickly, almost feverishly, lighting up every inch, as if hunting for a way out hidden in the folds of reality itself.
Ed stepped closer. "Mia, what are you doing?"
"Shh, wait…" she whispered, not taking her eyes off the ceiling. Then she froze. Her eyes widened. Her fingers twitched. "I found it! Look!" Her voice rang with triumph.
She pointed up. There, among the many dusty frames, was one tiny, clear photograph, a continuation of the one Martin had seen: a vegetable garden, a fence, the same house from a different angle.
"You see?" Mia turned to them, her face alight. "It's like a puzzle! These photos… they're clues. They want to help you remember, Martin."
He stepped closer, looking up. His lips twitched. "Do you… do you really think that's possible? I... don't know… maybe."
Ed frowned. "Mia, be serious. We're looking for a way out. This isn't a game!"
"Eddie, what if he knew the way but forgot?" her voice was soft, almost pleading. "If we help him remember, we'll get out. I'm sure. You believe me, don't you? You said you did."
The boy lowered his eyes. "I don't know, not after all that's happened. What if we're already—" he swallowed, unable to finish the terrible thought.
"Don't say it!" she shouted, cutting him off. "Don't you dare!"
"But what if it's true! Who knows what's real here?!" Ed said, clenching his fists.
Martin took a cautious step forward. His voice was low, ashamed. "You're trying so hard for me, and I... I’m not sure how to help. But if I did know the way once, if I've forgotten… maybe your sister is right."
Ed whirled on him. “You make it sound like we should trust you. What if you're in league with the ones we ran from?”
Martin looked down. “I understand why you don't believe me…”
"I just—" Ed gasped, his anger deflating into pure exhaustion. "I just want to go home."
Mia was silent. The light from the flashlight clung to the frame on the ceiling, holding it like a promise. She whispered: "We'll find a way, Eddie.”
Ed turned away. "Do whatever you want. But I have a bad feeling about this."
And they fell silent. Only the dust danced in the beam of the lamp, watched by the photographs on the ceiling, silent witnesses to something forgotten. And possibly, very important. Mia slowly lowered her eyes. The flashlight trembled faintly in her grip. The choice loomed over her, vast and dizzying: Ed, her brother, her blood, her voice of reason. Or Martin. A stranger. A clown with empty eyes and a broken memory. He wasn't scary. He was broken. Like a toy discarded in an attic and forgotten. A silent plea lived in his eyes: "Help me remember. Just a little."; And Mia couldn't turn away. Even if it was all weird. Even if it was scary. She had always believed she could sense people. With her heart, not her head. Naivety was her gift, her weakness, her shield. She stepped forward and gave her brother a quick, sudden hug. Tight. Her fingers ached.
"Eddie…" she mouthed, but the words didn't come out.
There was no request in this embrace. Only hope. An attempt to calm the storm raging in his own chest. Ed flinched, jerked, tried to push her away, but there was something familiar in her touch. Like a blanket on a rainy day. Like a light at the end of a long, scary hallway. He pulled away, but not abruptly. He stepped back. He sighed. His shoulders slumped.
"Okay," he breathed. "Just… don't say I didn't warn you."
He took the flashlight back. He held it in his hand like a weapon. It felt light now, a tool instead of a burden. Mia smiled faintly, then her expression became focused again. She raised her head. She walked along the wall. She peered. Frame by frame. Photo after photo. It was a test. A game. But it was real. Martin followed them in silence. He didn't just stand by. He looked. Slowly, carefully. He peered at the dust, at the cracks, at the edges of the frames, as if hoping one of them would speak to him. Tell him. Remind him. In the darkness, the three of them moved as one, a single, determined machine.
***
"Whose door do you think this is anyway?" Dee paused, looking around.
"They change all the time," Adam shrugged, frowning. "I don't always remember, even after all these years. It's strange that it's empty at all. We haven't met anyone yet." He looked around, his pupils dilating slightly. "As if this door doesn't have an owner. And that's what scares me—" his voice dropped. "I don't even remember a room like this. This maze… is it supposed to be here at all?"
"Well, I don't know," Dee said stiffly. "I don't wander around the tent. Being a guide is kind of your role."
"Wait…" he peered at her. "Is this your first time out of the dressing room?"
"Are you surprised?" Dee's eyes narrowed. "You didn't really want me to go with you. I had no reason to go out before."
"And now you're here?"
"I don't know," she said, her eyes still wary. "But I'm not going to talk about it yet. So it's none of your business."
Adam took a step back, as if he understood something.
The man paused, lost in thought. The girl continued walking without slowing down, not noticing that he had stopped, his eyes following her. Thoughts swirled around him but vanished the instant he tried to grasp them. They were lost again, circling again, coming back again, as if the room itself didn't want to lead them to the right place, only to test their patience. The next turn in the maze led down a gentle slope. The foam under their feet became heavier, as if soaked with moisture. The walls were losing color, and the upholstery hung in tatters, as if someone had constantly been tugging at it, looking for a way out. The lights were dimming. Somewhere high up, something hummed, and plastic-colored balloons hung overhead, bleak and dusty. In the corner, under a faded banner with children's drawings, lay a shoe. Just one. Big. Worn out. Dark brown, with heavy soles and greasy laces. Slightly lopsided, as if its owner had limped. There was a dent on the toe and a dark spot on the side. It didn't look right. Too old for a child's maze. Too real. Adam stopped walking. His gaze lingered on it longer than it should have. He didn't even bend down, just stood there as if the shoe might move at any moment. Dee's footsteps faded behind her. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Even the air felt like that of a room long forgotten. No hints. No inscriptions. Just the shoe. Abandoned. Still, there was something vaguely familiar about the sight of it. It felt like he'd caught a glimpse of it, in a hallway, on the stairs, behind a curtain. Many years ago. Or in a dream. Adam felt goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. Not fear. Not a memory. It felt like this item shouldn't be here. But it was. And now they were here, too. The fabric on the wall rippled slightly. Beyond it was a narrow passage that hadn't been there before. Adam walked forward without looking back. Dee followed in silence. The boot was left behind. They swerved again. Here, the walls were painted a dingy pink, dull as if bathed in old lamplight. Crunching plastic crunched under their feet, small parts of a construction kit or scattered beads. Ahead of them was an old tube slide, peeling and cracked with age. Once bright, now faded to the color of dusty leather. The rounded mouth of the slide was dark, sucking, like the entrance to the throat of a sleeping animal. Dee was walking a little ahead when she stopped. On the floor, almost exactly centered, was a teaspoon. Made of metal. Slightly bent. With a thin handle, slightly curved. It looked like it had been wiped clean, but there was still a shadow of old rust around the edge. It glittered in the light of a single bulb, like a tiny relic left on purpose. Dee leaned forward. There was an inscription on the handle. Scratched out, not engraved, as if with a fingernail or a knife. The letters sprawled as if written in a hurry or with difficulty. She could make out a couple of characters, something that looked like "Ma…" or "Mi…" but the rest was blurred or smudged. Dee held the spoon in her palm. Heavy, unexpectedly cold, as if it had just been in someone's mouth. She felt a chill run down her spine. The spoon lay as if it had been placed there on purpose, not dropped, not forgotten. It pointed straight into the mouth of the tube slide. Dee straightened up, still clutching the spoon, and looked slowly at Adam. He didn't say a word, but his face changed. Just a twitch of an eyelid, a clenched jaw. He knew something, too, though he didn't know what it was yet. Dee walked to the mouth of the slide. She bent down and looked inside. It was dark inside. Impossibly dark. The spoon in her hand suddenly seemed quieter than any rustle. It was as if the slide itself was listening. When they slid down, they didn't immediately realize they had stopped. The descent ended gently, almost unrealistically. There was no impact, no jolt. Just a sudden, seamless transition, and they were standing there. A quiet room. Too quiet. The light was dim, like through wet glass. The walls were hazy, simple, shabby, but without a clear pattern. Everything looked familiar. A worn floor, a carpet with an indistinguishable pattern. The air was thick, smelling of something sour and domestic: steamed laundry, baby cream, old plastic.
“Where are we?" Adam asked, but his voice didn't seem to reach Dee's ears.
She took a step forward, slowly, looking around. Everything was almost normal. Almost cozy. Almost homey. But underneath, there was a sense of profound alienness. A plastic spoon lay under the table. Next to it, a battered album of children's drawings. They were washed-out and faded. All with identical faces: circles with two dots and a wide, clown-like smile. On the wall, a clock with no hands. Adam went to the window. He reached for the curtain and froze. There was no window. Just a drawing of a window on the wall. Crooked. Like a child's attempt.
"Is this… a set?" he breathed.
Dee was silent. An almost-detailed kitchen was hung with sheets of paper depicting domestic life. They looked around carefully: a stove with a kettle, a pot next to it, rotten food inside stinking up the room. Then the silence broke. Or perhaps the room simply grew tired of waiting or let them go. Dee was the first to notice: the wall ahead was gone. Where the peeling surface had been, there was now a narrow passageway. A long corridor with wallpaper in a small, faded flower pattern. She stepped in first. Adam followed her, and with each step, it was as if each new detail punched through him: painfully familiar. He had been here. No, he hadn't lived here, but he'd been told about a similar place, someone had warmly shared the memory. Maybe laughing, maybe whispering.
"There was an old wardrobe here," he thought suddenly, looking at the corner where a darkening piece of furniture indeed stood. "And there were curtains with birds on them."
He didn't know where the thought came from. He just knew. The passage felt barely alive. It smelled of old wood, boiling porridge, and dusty wool. The air was heavy, like in a room where no one had opened the windows for years. A nightstand stood against the wall, a vase with dried flowers. And a single wooden baby shoe with a sticker on the side. Dee looked at it but didn't touch it. A wave of heat passed over them, not from the stove, but like a breath. An old, tired, large breath. With each step, his heartbeat grew quieter but more intense. It was like walking deep into someone's dream. Or a memory once told in passing. They entered a room that looked like a living room. On the table, in the middle of the tablecloth, lay an old diary, an ordinary school notebook with a gray cover, the corner stained and crumpled. Adam walked over without thinking, as if his hands knew what to do. He opened the notebook. The pages smelled of dust and something sweetly old, almost like forgotten cookies. The handwriting was large and forceful, with letters of varying heights, some drawn with special care. He flipped to the last entry. The page was a little crumpled, as if held in a hand for a long time. It said:
"Noises again. I don't like it when everyone is noisy. I hid as best I could. It's quiet here. I like it when he laughs. Not in the face, but just when it's fun. He's not afraid when I'm silent, he doesn't even wait for words, he's just there and everything, he's kind, even if not always. If someone suddenly comes — don't be afraid. I just hid. It's not forever."
Adam read it. Gradually. Then again. The warmth of those words didn't warm him—it burned him. Because it was too real. Because somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was about him. And that was a long time ago. He carefully closed the notebook and put it back. The room became deafeningly silent. And above the old chair, where the springs creaked, a single balloon bobbed. Inflated long ago. Pale blue. With a crooked, barely noticeable smiley face. They were silent for a long time. The room seemed to freeze with them, except that the balloon in the corner continued to sway, as if from a light draft that wasn't there. Dee walked over to the chair. She ran her fingers along the armrest. The cloth beneath her hand was worn, dark with age and the touch of many hands. It felt like a place where someone often sat. And waited. Adam turned around, not surprised. They went back to the corridor. Everything was the same: the flowered wallpaper, the bald carpet, the smell of an old house. The old house breathed. A quiet, measured rhythm. Even the air in it seemed to thicken, as if someone was watching without blinking. Dee was standing by the fake window. The curtain swayed slightly, reacting to a breath that wasn't theirs. She didn't look at Adam. Not immediately. He was already sitting in that chair, slightly bent over, hands in his lap, fingers curled into a tight lock. Shoulders slumped; eyes fixed on nothing. The scenes had disappeared. The shadows had melted away. But something remained. Something that couldn't be thrown out. Dee took a step closer, but didn't say a word. She just stood there. He turned his head, slowly, as if with a great effort. He looked at her and it wasn't the same Adam she knew. Not a magician, but just a man. Broken man. Dee didn't say anything. Her expression, her tight lips, her eyes fixed on the floor, it was quieter than any dialogue. They were in a house built from someone else's pain, from a memory that shouldn't have surfaced. And now they had to leave. A door slammed in the distance. Not in the past anymore. In the present. The house was beginning to change. To dissolve, to let them in further. Or deeper. Adam turned around once more, as if to say something to the empty space, and exhaled softly, almost inaudibly.
"I hope you're not with them."
***
The corridor grew narrower. The walls were crowded with photographs, thousands of faces, hands, objects, and scraps of everyday life. It was as if the wallpaper itself had been replaced with a photo album glued together from someone else's life. And most of it was blurry, as if soiled with water or wiped by fingers eager to forget. The photos were scattered along the walls and ceiling, as if hung in a frantic hurry, a retreat from something unseen. The children walked in silence, and only Martin looked back more and more often, as if afraid the walls might collapse behind them. And then Mia stopped. Her eyes caught on something strange, a huge, empty frame hanging at the end of the corridor. It was about the height of an adult, framed in darkened wood. Nothing inside. Not even glass. Just a void that seemed to pull you in. Mia approached slowly. The frame seemed alive. It was cold, as if the air behind it was shivering with a chill that wasn't there.
"Ed," she said, not looking away.
He walked over and peered into the empty space. "There's nothing here," he said, but hesitantly.
"No, there is," Mia whispered. "Look, right here."
She pointed to a tiny hook on the edge. And another one. Traces of removed contents. It was as if the frame was once complete or should have been. She glanced back, her eyes flicking to a nearby photograph hanging a little askew. It wasn't blurry, but almost clear, a captured piece of space: a carpet, the edge of a chair, a shadow on the floor. Finding it was like discovering the first piece of a puzzle, and Mia looked at her brother and Martin with a smile. Ed nodded silently. And so, they moved on, each now searching not just for scraps, but for clues. For parts of something bigger. Something that had been hidden. And the room felt it. Around them, the walls seemed to breathe. Ed took down one of the photos from the wall, showing a piece of stairs and someone's sock on the carpet. It seemed clear enough to be part of something real. He went to the frame and carefully tried to insert it, just as Mia had done with the first one. But something went wrong. The photograph wavered in his hands, as if being pushed away by an invisible force. A faint rumble reverberated through the walls. The overhead lamp flickered.
"Hey," Ed said softly, pulling his hands away. "It doesn't fit?"
Mia stepped closer and peered at the picture.
“It's the wrong piece. It's from the wrong part.”
"That part of what?"
Mia shook her head. She didn't know. But she felt that the frame would not accept deception. It would only accept what belonged to the true picture.
"Try another one," she said, scanning the pictures along the wall.
Martin stood a little behind them, as if holding his breath. He was afraid to get any closer. Or he was afraid of what he might see. The hum gradually subsided, and the photograph in Ed's hands felt normal again. But now they knew the frame was "alive." And it wouldn't allow itself to be assembled from just anything. They moved along the wall slowly, as if walking through a minefield. Mia picked up picture after picture, looking at them as if seeking a feeling, not an image. But even for her, it was a blur: stairs, shadows, bits of faces, wallpaper that seemed to float. Ed tried again, a picture of a blurry figure in a chair. The frame didn't accept it. A sound, almost like a deep sigh, passed through the floor. The photograph in his hands grew cold and unpleasant to the touch.
Mia shook her head. "Maybe it doesn't matter," Ed exhaled. "Maybe we shouldn't be trying to assemble this at all."
Martin suddenly sobbed. Almost soundlessly. "You should," Mia said. "We just haven't figured out how yet."
She went to another photo. There was only a piece of carpet, a barely visible corner of a closet, and a shadow like the edge of someone's ear. Her hand reached out, but something inside her stopped it. She turned to Martin. The clown was frozen. He was looking sideways to where photos were hanging just below, almost at the floor. His eyes were wide, and his lips trembled slightly.
"Martin?" Mia called softly.
He didn't respond. Slowly, with unusual concentration, he crouched down and held out his hand. The picture, sandwiched between two others, was almost inconspicuous, a little crumpled, its edges faded, the image seeming to float as if seen through wet glass. Martin touched it cautiously, as if afraid of startling something alive. He pulled it out. He looked it over. Then suddenly he whispered: "Here…"
Ed and Mia exchanged glances.
“You think this is it?" Ed stepped closer.
Martin nodded. Surprisingly confident. Without waiting, he handed the photo to Mia. She took the picture. It showed part of an old window, slightly ajar, with rusty hinges and a floral curtain. A simple detail, but there was something real about it. Something warm. Mia stepped to the frame and placed the photo inside without thinking. She froze, staring. It didn't flicker anymore. It didn't push the photo away. The picture lay flat, like a perfect piece of a jigsaw puzzle. As if it had always been part of something bigger, just waiting to be found.
"Got it!" Mia gasped.
"Did it work?" Ed asked, a sudden flicker of excitement, of hope in his voice.
Martin nodded, not looking at them. He was staring at the framed picture as if it were a window. It was as if he knew something, or was trying to remember it, but not quite. Mia shifted her gaze to the walls. All those hundreds of pictures, she knew now that some of them were real. The ones that would fit the frame. The rest was noise. Blurry phantoms, other people's memories, or just illusions.
"We need to find more," she said firmly.
Ed ran back to the walls and started sorting through the photos. Some seemed promising, glimpses of warm light, familiar shapes but as he brought them closer, the images would "fade," losing clarity. Mia found one showing a part of a floor and the edge of a child's shoe. But the frame rejected it. Each mistake sent a slight tremor through the air, a silent disapproval from the walls themselves.
"We'll find them," Mia said, her voice confident and quiet, as if stating a fact rather than posing a question.
Ed resumed his search. He pulled out a photo with a faint, almost illegible silhouette, but when he tried to fit it into the frame, he felt the picture struggle in his hands again. A faint, cold light licked at his fingers from the wall. Mia could feel the air in the room growing heavier. An inner fear drew her toward the photographs, but she held back. Each new image seemed foggier, blurrier: a chaos of faces, doors, and windows, all melting into the air. For a moment, it seemed the walls were beginning to narrow, the shadow on the floor stretching too long and thin.
"Ed, did you find anything?" she asked.
Ed exhaled without looking up. He kept sifting through the photos, but one by one, they proved to be ghosts. One showed a piece of a child's toy, a rubber ball, another, hands gripping a chair. But as soon as Ed tried to place them in the frame, they wavered and vanished.
His voice was low, edged with nerves. "Nothing fits."
Martin stood in the corner, arms crossed. He didn't interfere, didn't move closer. He was perfectly still, as if afraid to touch anything he shouldn't. Mia felt her stomach churn with tension. She picked up another photo, just a fragment of a dress and the edge of a table and tried to insert it. There was no sound, but she felt the frame push back against her hands, a building resistance. She yanked her hands away and stepped back.
"What the—?" Ed whirled around. "Stay back, Mia!"
But it was too late. The photograph wavered in her hands as if resisting, then with a slight whoosh, it was back on the wall, blurring into nothingness. Mia sighed heavily, her fingers curling into a fist.
“Something's wrong. Why? Why doesn't it fit? What are we doing wrong?”
At that moment, Ed felt something strange. Next to him on the wall was another image, not quite a photograph but a strange imprint, as if left by a presence. He pulled it from the row.
"Mia, look!”
It was a photograph, slightly distorted, jammed, its colors dimmed but it clearly showed a part of a milky glass window filtering light, a section of floor, and in the shadows a child's shoe. The same shoe they'd seen fragments of before. It felt right. Ed walked to the frame, and this time, when he inserted the photo, there was no resistance. The light didn't flicker.
"It's this one!” He sounded relieved, as if a weight had finally lifted from his shoulders.
The frame accepted the photo, as if this particular detail had always belonged there. With this success, something in the room shifted slightly. Yet, even so, Martin's vision seemed to blur as he looked at the new addition. He didn't speak, just retreated further into the shadows. The picture was finally in place. Mia felt a wave of relief, but the underlying tension didn't dissipate. It was still too quiet, too eerie. A feeling of something left unsaid grew inside her. She glanced at Ed, who was staring at the frame, his hands trembling slightly.
“Are you all right?" she asked.
Ed nodded, but concern flickered in his eyes. He didn't answer immediately, then finally gasped. “This is too weird, isn't it?"
Mia looked at Martin. He was standing in the corner, his gaze fixed on the wall, though he didn't seem to be seeing it. Only occasionally did the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly when something changed in the room.
"Martin, are you sure you don't remember anything from before?" she asked, though she expected no answer.
Martin just shuffled his feet softly, as if searching for footing. He looked at the wall again, and it was as if he'd discovered something crucial. "Over there," he said softly, pointing to the left. "There should be more."
Ed and Mia exchanged glances but didn't argue. They moved in the direction Martin had indicated, an uneasy chill settling over them both. The air was heavier here, and the closer they got, the deeper the silence became. The shadows on the walls stretched out behind them in long, thin lines. The room itself seemed to shrink. Mia felt her heart begin to pound faster. Her fingers found the next photo, but it was different. It wasn't a fragment of cloth or light, but an image of a house. Clean, with neat windows and doors. Mia immediately knew it didn't belong; it was someone else's memory. She reached for the next one, her face tense. But when Ed tried to place his found photo into the frame, it clenched in his hands, as if the air itself had tightened around them. He knew instantly it was wrong, like the last one. He put it back, and for a moment, everything seemed to go dark. A heavy silence fell, and then they both resumed their search, frustration mounting.
“Why doesn't anything fit?" Ed asked, his voice cracking.
At that moment, Martin returned to the wall and pulled a single photograph out from under many others. It showed the edge of a dark staircase and a view of an empty corridor. Strangely, he felt certain this was the one. He didn't ask, didn't hesitate. He just walked to the frame and inserted the photo. The frame reacted differently this time: it didn't accept the picture immediately but, after a brief hesitation, absorbed it. The same light glowed, but slightly brighter.
"I found something," Martin whispered.
Ed and Mia felt the walls relax a little around them again. But an indistinct unease remained in the air, as if they were walking on the border between reality and illusion. This photo wasn't just an image; it was a fragment of memory that made something click in their subconscious for a fleeting moment. Martin stepped back and looked at the wall they were still decorating. "That's not all," he said, as if to himself.
But everything was too quiet. And the further they went, the clearer it became that this room was not just a place, it was something more. It was as if it had begun to change with them, to affect them on some fundamental level. Mia and Ed now stood before a wall almost entirely covered in the assembled photographs. Each piece they had inserted grew clearer, as if they were restoring not just a memory, but reality itself. Children's shoes, an empty hallway, dark windows, a staircase. Everything was falling into place. The silence that filled the room was suffocating. There was no sound, no movement. The room itself seemed to hold its breath, and everything hung suspended. But then something strange happened. The frame containing all the photos began to distort. Its edges blurred, as if their sliding motion was burning away the space around it. Gradually, in place of the solid wall, a door began to form. The impassable surface began to crack, and a faint shimmer flashed through the air. The door swung open, revealing a new world. It was the same corridor, the same staircase, the same windows but now these elements seemed completely alien and distorted, as if they had always been part of a different, dissonant space. When the door was fully open and the space behind it became clear and tangible, the sense of enclosure vanished. Instead, every step toward the threshold felt like a transition into a new reality. The space beyond was no longer shaky and indistinct but had acquired a strange, unsettling clarity. Mia took a step forward, and her fingers brushed the surface of the door. The moment she touched the cold material, a slight crack sounded, and the air around her changed. The images beyond the door became vivid and stark, as if they were now part of this world. The room beyond was no longer just an image or a memory. It was a place both real and profoundly alien. And when they crossed the threshold, the room they left behind seemed like an empty frame, their footsteps echoing as they were led into the unknown.
Chapter 5: The clown who cries. Part 2
Chapter Text
The children and Martin stepped through the doorway, and the world beyond was utterly transformed. It was a place where light and shadow mingled inextricably, where the air felt heavy and sounds came through muffled and strange. The corridor they found themselves in was at once familiar and profoundly alien. The walls, overgrown with the traces of time, seemed long forgotten, though they couldn't pinpoint why. They moved forward, feeling the very space around them shift with each step. It was not empty; footsteps, whispers, and the faint strains of light music drifted from behind a door leading to the next room. Mia looked around, a gnawing sense that something was wrong growing within her, though she couldn't yet grasp what. They entered what appeared to be dressing rooms, a space filled with a chaotic bustle and bright lights that failed to illuminate the darkness lurking in the corners. People in various states of undress, faces flushed, hurried between mirrors that reflected their images but seemed to capture nothing of their souls. There was something uncanny about these mirrors, something deeply unreal. The silence that had enveloped the children shattered when a young artist noticed Martin. She exclaimed and walked toward him, her face breaking into a happy, familiar smile.
"Martin! Finally!" Her voice was lively, and her eyes sparkled with joy. "Come on, you're on soon. Are these your little helpers? Come, I'll get you ready."
Martin looked at her, but his expression was vague, as if he didn't recognize her. He was smiling, but his whole being seemed detached from what was happening around him. Mia didn't understand what was going on. She could feel her heart starting to pound faster. It was all too vivid, yet utterly alien. The dressing rooms, the performers, this woman who addressed them as old acquaintances, it all felt familiar yet inexplicable. The woman motioned for them to follow her to one of the tables. Martin was quickly surrounded by other artists, who began to change his clothes, style his hair, and adjust his costume. He didn't resist, his face calm, as if this was his rightful place, his life. Ed, however, was instantly on edge. Something about this situation felt deeply wrong, and he couldn't fathom how they had ended up here. When the artists began working on him, he resisted strongly. Every touch, every adjustment felt like a violation. He jerked his arm away, tried to pull back, and shouted at everyone, but no one paid him any attention. They continued their work as if his resistance were mere background noise. Mia, on the other hand, was paralyzed with confusion. Her hands turned cold, and her mind struggled to process the scene. The woman in the suit looked at her with a slight smile, directed her to another table, and started helping her change. Mia didn't understand anything, but her body wouldn't move, as if controlled by some invisible force. She couldn't find the strength to resist. The whole scene felt like fragments of a dream where she was unable to distinguish reality from a game whose rules she didn't know. Ed continued to struggle against the hands that held him. He knew he didn't want to be here, but his efforts were useless. He looked like a trapped animal wanting to escape but finding no way out. It was then that his gaze met Mia's, filled with fear and a desperate, unspoken anxiety. In his eyes, she read only one thing: resistance was futile. The artists, preoccupied with their tasks, seemed completely unaware of how each step was pulling Mia and Ed deeper into another layer of this strange world. Soon, Mia and Ed found themselves standing in a corner of the dressing room, hastily prepped and costumed. All around them were performers, each in their own elaborate costume, busy with final preparations. Everything seemed normal and routine, until Ed felt a sudden, disorienting shift, as if everything around him was beginning to move in unnaturally slow motion. Martin stood beside them, his face glowing under layers of makeup, his clown costume immaculate. He was looking toward the archway leading to the arena with impatience, like a small child before a long-awaited celebration. His eyes sparkled; he seemed to be in his element.
"We've been through this before," Ed whispered, looking at Mia with concern. "We need to leave, Mia."
Mia, despite her determination, felt her own doubts begin to creep up her chest. She couldn't explain what was happening, but a vague knowledge in her heart told her they should not stay. She just nodded silently, her gaze not quite as steady as before. Ed squeezed her hand, his nervousness obvious, but he also knew they couldn't be kept here. It was too far fetched, too strange. They were not supposed to be part of this world. But Martin stood there, oblivious to their conversation. His face broke into a warm smile, and his eyes were fixed on the stage. The dancers had already begun their performance, and he was looking at them with a truly childish fascination. His gaze roamed over their movements, and there was no alarm or fear in his eyes. There was only happiness. He didn't want to leave. Ed felt his anxiety turn to fear. Everything that was happening around them became more and more unreal. He felt his body tense, his mind racing as it tried to find an explanation, but he knew he was not supposed to be here. He looked back at Mia, and despite her usual resilience, she was also aware of the growing strangeness of the world. The dancers in the arena continued their performance, and Martin, as if in another world, enjoyed every movement, every detail of the show. For him, it was something familiar, something important and native. He didn't want to leave this moment. This was his world. In the arena, under the bright lights, the girls were dressed in glittering costumes. Their movements flowed smoothly into rhythmic, almost hypnotic choreographic combinations. The light rays played on their costumes, creating the effect that each of the dancers was surrounded by her own aura, one that was soft and magical. The audience sitting in the semi darkness was silent, their eyes fixed on the stage, but there was no applause or excitement. It was a strange silence, as if every spectator was in a trance. The dancers moved with perfect synchronicity, as if they were merging into one whole. Their movements were both airy and strict, precisely calibrated. Their bodies didn't seem to touch the ground. Instead, they seemed to glide on it, radiating a strange, elusive lightness. At one point, one of the girls made an incredibly difficult turn and soon disappeared into the darkness behind the stage. Another one appeared in her place. Ethereal and graceful, they gave off a sense of illusion. It was not just a physical movement, but something more, something that couldn't be described in words. Martin stood with his eyes fixed on the stage. There was a light in his eyes, as if he was seeing something more than just a dance. Maybe he saw memories or experiences hidden behind each movement. His lips parted slightly, and he looked at the dancers as if they were part of his deepest inner reality. Ed and Mia stood in the shadows, watching. Ed felt goosebumps rise on his skin from the strange atmosphere. There was no music in his ears, only a soft noise that didn't seem to be music, but the breath of space itself. At that moment, everything around him seemed to be filled with something invisible, an energy that was not present in ordinary life. He could not explain why he felt this way, but he was uneasy. He glanced back at Mia, but her face was tense. She felt something, too, but she could not put her finger on it. She looked at the dancers, not seeing them, but as if trying to see something behind them. Ed realized that they were both trapped in this world somehow. But Martin was completely absorbed. He didn't notice their alarm. He was happy. The audience didn't move. Their faces were frozen like masks, as if they too were part of the spectacle, part of this world in which there was no room for questions or doubts. They just sat there, watching, not reacting. Their eyes were the same, blank. Mia gave Ed a small signal. Her lips didn't say a word, but her eyes were filled with concern. She realized it was not just a performance. It was more than that. But until they figured out what was going on, they were unable to break out. In the arena, the dancers changed. Their costumes flashed, and every move became stranger and more refined. They barely touched the floor. Their bodies seemed to float in the air, and their movements seemed endless. With each step of the dance, the audience became more and more blurred, and Ed felt his consciousness begin to blur. He tried to grasp reality, but it was slipping away like water through his fingers. And so, when the lights in the arena dimmed, the dancers disappeared into the darkness. They left behind only echoing whispers, as if the scene itself was alive. Everyone who was on it had become part of her memories. Martin stood up and squared his shoulders wide. His eyes were twinkling. He was ready. It was his place, his show. Everything held its breath. In that moment, Ed knew they were not just watching. They were part of this world. The dance routine ended. Suddenly, the lights in the arena went out. At the moment when everything seemed to freeze, the curtains were swiftly flung open. As if on cue, the audience began to focus on the center of the stage. The dancers pointed their fingers at Martin and the children in perfect unison. Their gestures were precise, as if they had been rehearsed in advance. Ed, not expecting this outcome, stood transfixed. His gaze moved quickly from Mia to the stage, to the dancers, and back again. His heart skipped a beat as the floodlights suddenly flashed with blinding brightness, catching them off guard. Mia, like him, didn't have time to react to the unexpected lighting. Ed felt his body tense, ready for something inevitable. But in the midst of all this chaos, Ed's eyes were drawn to Martin. He stood motionless, as if the whole world revolved around him. There was no fear in his eyes, only endless curiosity and joy. He watched in surprise, his face beaming, as if some genuine childish delight had been reawakened in him. Ed quickly got his bearings. When he noticed that everything was beginning to take on a hypnotic rhythm, he whispered to Martin, «Come out.» His voice was almost slurred, but there was an urgent plea in it. He knew that their presence on stage right now, under the gaze of the audience, might be too dangerous. It was necessary to act quickly. Martin ignored him. He continued to stare at the arch of the stage, enjoying what was happening. Ed realized that he had no choice but to play along with this world, even if it meant losing another part of his reality. Now that they were in the middle of this world, it was hard to separate what was real and what was a game. Ed's gaze returned to Mia. She stood there, slightly tense, but her eyes also swept over the dancers and the audience, trying to catch what was next. When Martin stepped onto the stage, his clumsy movements immediately attracted attention. He tried to look confident, but his gait was strange and twisted, as if he was not in his body. He walked with excessive theatricality. He would sometimes lift his feet abruptly, and sometimes he would stumble and make "blunders" as if by accident. It was so ridiculous that in the audience, despite the tense atmosphere, restrained chuckles were already beginning to be heard. His clothes were a huge gaudy suit with oversized buttons and scraps of fabric, bright colored ribbons and pom poms. It fit him like an old, forgotten garment that had once been worn with pride, but now it was just an annoying attribute. Martin, despite his mistakes, continued to act. He tried to be funny and clumsy. But his movements became more and more stupid and absurd. He tried to jump, but could not. His legs got tangled. He fell to his knees, but immediately tried to get up, not noticing that his big nose suddenly "flew" to the side, and the elastic band on the suit burst with a characteristic "pfff". These the clown tricks were beginning to look even more ridiculous. The children watched in confusion. Ed felt his face flush with shame. This world they were in seemed so alien to them. He looked around nervously, not knowing what to do or how to help. Mia, unable to look away, felt her insides tighten. It was strange and humiliating. Martin was once a real clown. He could make people laugh. His performances were lively, bright, and full of joy. But now everything has changed. His gestures, his laughter, his strange falls and ridiculous attempts to interact with "imaginary" partners and the audience now seemed painful. It was tragic. Everything Martin did was absurd. He tried to do a "classic" clown trick with balloons, but they rolled endlessly out of his hands, as if slipping away from him, like his own memory and ability to cope with reality. Anything that might have made him laugh only served to increase the children's sense of shame, making them look at him with sadness. Mia could not just stand there and watch. She felt her throat tighten with tension, and something inside her was beginning to demand action. Thoughts of how he used to be flashed through her head. He was cheerful and confident, lively, with joy in his eyes. But now it was different. She approached Martin. He continued his ridiculous movements as if nothing was happening, but when she touched his shoulder, he froze. She held out her hand, trying to guide him to the next part of his "speech." She was helping him not only physically but also verbally, even though she did not say anything. She only used a gentle movement to lead him on. Martin was getting more disoriented with each step. He could not remember what to do next. But Mia did not back down. She helped him continue. She told him what to do. Her movements were careful and light, as if she was trying to bring him back to the days when he was a real clown, when he was alive and full of energy. But even so, no matter how hard she tried, the absurdity of what was happening did not disappear. It was a world in which Martin had long since lost his role, and the children were drawn into this circus. They were part of this game, and their presence only made it more painful. Mia continued to guide Martin through his performance, trying to make it a little less ridiculous, even though she could feel her own inner tension building. Martin happily took a few clumsy steps, twirling in place. But then he decided to "light up". He took the hat and tried to make a spectacular gesture, but at that moment, to his horror, it did not fit on his head. Instead, it slid down on his face, like a banal trick that always ends in failure. The audience started laughing. Martin, embarrassed, quickly took off his hat and ran over to Ed, as if this was just another interaction moment. He wanted to do a "trick", but got confused in his own movements. Ed, trying to keep a straight face, helped him. He matched his steps to Martin's strange dancing. Mia, meanwhile, could not resist playing along. She made a few playful moves. But instead of just keeping moving with the rhythm, she accidentally switched to one of the clown gestures. She ended up in a position similar to the "fall" pose, where she rolled over on her back. Martin, seeing her, decided that this was also part of the suite. He tried to roll up to her, but he accidentally stepped on her arm. Mia sighed, but when she noticed that the audience was still laughing, she got up and continued to "dance" in the same style. At some point, Martin tried to twist around, but a large pocket suddenly opened on him. Colorful bows flew out. The bows landed under Mia's feet just in time. She stepped on one of them, losing her balance and flying into a large bucket of paint that was standing nearby. She fell with a thud. Paint splattered all over the stage, painting the floor and her costume bright green. The audience started giggling even louder. When Martin ran over to help Mia up, he also caught on to her costume and leaned over. He slid across the stage and into the paint bucket. The entire hall erupted in laughter. Ed, trying desperately not to laugh, ran up to Martin. He quickly tried to support him, showing him some "clown" tricks as he went, in order to mitigate the situation a little. But all that happened was that he reinforced the absurdity of what was happening. Martin, meanwhile, did not lose his composure and continued at this insane pace. He waved his arms, pretending that he was trying to "fly away" on huge inflatable balls. One of them exploded, and everything around it was caught in a cloud of colorful small balls. All the children could do was continue to dance in the same rhythm, trying to avoid new obstacles. The audience, laughing, genuinely enjoyed this disorderly and ridiculous performance. Martin was determined. Every step he took, every gesture he made, was a real clown acrobatic move. And although the children felt a little embarrassed, they played along to support him. They also did it because they understood that otherwise this number would not end in any way. When the performance finally ended, the entire audience erupted in applause. The audience laughed and applauded. Their smiles were sincere and their laughter carefree. Martin was beaming like he had won an award for best acting talent. He bowed with a smile, oblivious to the way his suit still hung down the sides. It looked as if he had not survived a real storm. The children, despite their embarrassment, followed him. They pretended that they were absolutely sure of what was happening. They also got up on stage and, slightly late, bowed. But their bow was a little less confident than Martin's. Ed fought back a smile and tried to look professional. Mia, on the other hand, was looking out of the hall with a slightly confused expression. She still was not fully understanding what had happened, but she was still pretending that it was all part of the plan. Backstage, the children exhaled. Their hearts were still pounding with excitement. Martin, happy and contented, hurried to the dressing table. His costume needed some adjustments. He kept humming to himself, as if he didn't realize the absurdity of what was happening. Ed and Mia walked over to him in silence. Only when they were alone together did they begin to relax a little. In this strange and tense moment, they were both amused and ashamed. But the main thing was that they saved Martin from bigger mistakes. Martin turned back to them with a beaming smile, clearly proud of his performance.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Mia glanced at Ed, and only now did she realize that they had really helped him. Just as they were about to take a break, a new figure appeared in the dressing room. A man in a top hat, with a refined air and a confident gait, stood in the doorway. His suit was immaculate, as if he had just stepped off the cover of a glossy magazine. At first glance, he might have been an old friend or an acquaintance, but there was something wrong with him. He stood there, looking at the children and Martin with a slightly strange, even cold look. His expression was as refined as Adam's. Martin grew a little wary when he saw him, but he did not seem to remember how he knew him.
"Oh, a new act," the man in the top hat murmured softly, noticing the children but showing no sign of being interested in their participation. He was solely focused on getting to his part of the show. "It was a very interesting performance, guys," he added with a smile that was somehow unnaturally frozen.
Martin, on the other hand, went on humming to himself as if he hadn't noticed anything. The children stood there, dazed, not understanding what exactly was going on. They sensed that there was something strange about this new magician, in his overly confident manner, in his movements that were not quite human. It was as if he was several steps ahead of their understanding. The man in the top hat was oblivious to the children's reactions. Before they could say anything, he turned and headed for the stage. In his hands was not just a magic staff, but something more, something that could completely change the course of this strange performance. Ed, feeling oddly cold, looked back at Mia. He could feel the tension building in the air again. Everything was wrong, and each step this magician took seemed to bring them closer to something inevitable, something they still could not comprehend. The children were standing in the wings, their sense of unease growing by the moment. Everything that was happening felt wrong. It was as if the space around them was no longer familiar. Even the air was getting denser. Mia felt her heart start to beat faster, and Ed, usually calmer, clenched his fists, trying to figure out what was going on. The magician, noticing their confusion, suddenly looked over his shoulder. His gaze was not that of an ordinary entertainer. There was no mirth, no joy, just a strange, icy wariness. It was as if he was checking who was behind him, not with interest, but with a kind of cold confidence. It was as if they were part of his plan and he knew they could not just leave. After a brief inspection, he returned to the stage, but before continuing, he said with a slight grin, "You want to be a part of this, don't you?" His voice was soft but tinged with an unpleasant edge, as if he already knew the answer. His words didn't sound like a suggestion. It was a statement. What Mia and Ed felt most was not a desire to join in, but fear. The feeling that they should not be here, that something was wrong. This magician was alien, not like those who went on stage to amuse the audience, but like something that imposed itself, that drew them into a trap. Mia stepped back a little, her eyes darting down the dark hallway. Ed took a step forward, as if instinctively trying to block Mia's path, but at that moment his leg was moving of its own accord. His body was not working properly. He tried to resist, but the magician still forced them to move towards the stage. It was as if something invisible was dragging them along.
"Come on," the magician said, not looking at them as his footsteps rang out on the stage. He did not hurry, but his every gesture was like a command given without words. The children had no choice.
Mia looked back at Ed anxiously, her eyes full of concern, but Ed couldn't say anything. He felt like his body, his movements, everything was under the control of this strange person. They followed him slowly, almost unconsciously. And each step filled them with more and more unease, as if space was becoming more and more alien, and the magician, with each passing moment, was becoming less human and more something elusive and hideous. None of this was right, and they both felt it. But it was too late. When the floodlights caught the magician's face, the children froze. He was almost an exact copy of Adam, but at the same time completely different. It was a younger face, full of confidence, almost aristocratic, but still with features that Ed and Mia couldn't ignore. The lines of his face were clearer and sharper, his eyes brighter, and his expression calmer, not overburdened by the weariness that always lurked behind Adam's gaze. With each step, the magician seemed more confident. His movements were smooth and his posture majestic. Mia and Ed, while they felt something familiar about these features, also felt a strange threat from what was in front of them. But here, in his presence, there was none of the uneasy uncertainty that gripped their hearts when they thought of the real Adam. No, this man was like a shield, like the personification of something that could protect them from the danger of an old friend. The magician seemed to stand between them and the world they had left, like a barrier protecting them from what was familiar but now seemed dark and alien. His calmness, confidence, and even a slight enigmatic smile did not seem threatening. Rather, he was someone who could help them deal with what they had left behind. He did not look at the children with a blank face, as Adam might have. On the contrary, his gaze was still calm and protective. He took his time. His footsteps were soft and silent but steady, and with each movement he became even more lulling, as if embracing them with this image of himself. As their eyes met, Mia felt the tension she had felt from the beginning ease a little. She could not explain why, but this man, despite his physical resemblance to Adam, seemed more like a friend than an enemy. Something about him gave her a sense of protection. The magician turned to the audience, his face glowing with confidence and charisma. He held up his hands, pausing dramatically, as if to say he was preparing for a grand moment. The whole hall immediately fell silent and still.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. His voice was soft but with a force that made everyone in the audience feel involved. "Today I will show you something special. Not just a trick, but a magic that lives in our perception. And for that, I need the help of my friends." He pointed to the children, and the audience began to applaud.
The magician then turned his gaze back to Mia and Ed, as if everything that was happening at that moment was for them. He took a step toward the children and, ignoring their confused expressions, continued calmly, "So, my dears, you are now part of the magic. Don't worry, everything will be fine. I'm just going to show you how, with a little faith and a little imagination, you can create something amazing."
His manner was staged and confident, as if he had long been familiar with how children react to such situations. He led Ed carefully but surely to the center of the stage, then turned to Mia, looking at her with a slight grin, as if this moment was part of an elaborate performance. "Ed," he said, "you will be my first assistant. A simple trick, but spectacular. You will show everyone that even the smallest things can be a miracle. Don't worry, I'll be right there." Then his gaze slid gently to Mia. "And you, Mia, will be my second assistant."
The children nodded silently, their hands clenched nervously, but they could not move away. The magician's magic was too strong. It was as if he was drawing them to him, not giving them a choice, and his confidence gave them a strange feeling that they couldn't refuse. The magician turned his gaze back to the hall, but this time his attention returned to the children.
"Get ready," he said, and there was a note in his voice that said he was ready to do something important, regardless of fear or doubt. The magician raised his hands, and the silence in the hall became deafening. The stage lights began to dim, leaving only the bright spotlights illuminating him and the children. With this move, he instantly captured the attention of the audience. Their gazes darted towards him as if the magic in the air was getting stronger. "Are you ready to see a miracle?"
And then, as if by magic, the magician quickly moved his hands. At one point, balls seemed to appear out of thin air. First one, then two more, which began to circle around him, casting flashes of light. Light and airy, they moved smoothly in time with his gestures, as if they were alive. He jumped quickly from one movement to the next, each gesture expertly timed, each step well rehearsed. The audience gasped as the magician suddenly disappeared into thin air. A moment later, he was back at the other end of the stage. The light flickered behind him, and his figure seemed to blur into a million sparks, then reassemble itself so artfully that no one had time to realize what had happened. Now his attention was on Ed. He walked softly over to him and straightened his arms to the exact millimeter, saying a few words at the right moment, almost whispering. Ed felt his body seem to stop struggling. He did not quite realize what was happening, and then the magician smoothly led him to a huge cylinder standing nearby. The children froze, not understanding what was going to happen next, but from the audience there were delighted screams.
"And now," the magician said, his voice magically mesmerizing, "I'm transforming reality." He waved his hand, and the cylinder swirled around Ed as if in a magical vortex.
Then he abruptly lowered his hands, and a miracle seemed to happen in front of the audience. Ed was gone, but not in the old trick that everyone might have expected. It was as if he had vanished into thin air, leaving behind only a light haze, which soon disappeared as well. The audience exclaimed in surprise. The magician took his time, didn't hurry, and with a smile went to Mia, who had been standing all this time, not knowing what to do, but already feeling how her role was approaching. He turned to her and said with a small smile, "Now you, Mia." Mia approached timidly, but her heart was beating faster. At this moment, she was not just part of the performance, but at the very center of the magic that was being unleashed on them. It was as if the world around them was beginning to obey only these moments. The magician raised his hands again. At the same time, he threw another object into the air with incredible agility, and this moment filled the entire space around him. But for a moment, the world around them seemed to freeze. The magician was looking at Mia with a mysterious, almost distant smile. His eyes seemed to lose focus, absorbed in something else. He stood next to the magic locker where assistants usually disappear. Mia, still a little confused, did not have time to realize what was going on when his voice cut through the air softly.
"Say hi to my son," the magician said.
There was a slight, almost imperceptible pressure in his voice. He was calm, but the words sounded like something that should have been said a long time ago was finally spoken. Mia cringed with the odd feeling that the words didn't apply to her. Something about them made her heart suddenly beat faster. Something was wrong. She started to say something, but at that moment the magician easily opened the cabinet doors, placing her carefully and almost effortlessly inside. It was dark inside, and the smell of old wood instantly filled her nose. It was both familiar and unfamiliar. Mia didn't even have time to feel fear when the closet doors closed with a loud bang. The next moment, the locker suddenly began to move. Before she knew it, she was being carried down the stairs as if riding in an elevator, but her movements were strangely abrupt and unnatural. Everything was happening so fast that she didn't have time to realize what was happening. At first, her body began to sway slightly, then her speed accelerated. The sound the mechanism made was a sharp but monotonous noise, as if she was descending into a dungeon. No lighting effects, just heavy breathing and the whisper of her thoughts. Mia felt her heart start to beat even faster, not from fear, but from not knowing what to do next. Her thoughts were confused, a strange feeling after the magician's words. "Say hi to my son" — these words didn't leave her. Mia tried to calm herself, but as the descent continued, her thoughts became increasingly muddled. Then the closet doors opened with a soft creak. Instead of the usual darkness or the mystical theater space, she was surrounded by a clear, bright light. She squeezed her eyes shut but soon adjusted. When her eyes focused again, she saw something unexpected. She was standing in the fresh air. There was no circus, no gloomy corridors, no backstage areas. It was completely different. Before her lay a smooth, silvery river, its waters shimmering in the sun, its banks drowned in greenery. A light breeze brushed her face, warm and smelling of wet grass and water. In the distance, there were trees with green foliage, and among them stretched an invisible path hidden in the shadows. Mia took a step forward, not sure how she got here. She felt the soft forest ground under her feet and looked around, trying to make sense of what was happening. For a second, she even thought it was all part of a new trick, that it was just a trick of light and shadow, but the whole sensation was too real to ignore. Peering into the river, Mia realized that the water wasn't moving. Not like an ordinary river. Its surface was almost motionless, like a mirror. In the reflection of the trees and sky, she saw her own silhouette, but with something strange about it. She looked as if she shouldn't have been here, as if her reflection didn't align with the surrounding reality. Mia tore her eyes away from the water and looked around. She saw nothing to explain her situation. This world was as alien as something from an old movie, and with each step she took, the sense of strangeness only grew stronger. There were no people here, no magicians, no circus. Everything was quiet, almost too quiet. Even as her mind tried to process what was happening, the feelings inside her told her that she was in the wrong place. She turned around, but there was no turning back. The cabinet doors had disappeared into thin air as if they had never been there. The only way was to go forward. Mia took a step toward the river, and as soon as her foot barely touched the water, she sensed that something was wrong here. The feeling never left her. Even if it was just a trick, something inside her was leading her somewhere else. Mia had taken a few more steps along the bank when her eyes fell on an old bridge that spanned the river. It was wooden, long unpainted, with warped beams and peeling paint, as if someone had forgotten about it years ago. Two boys were sitting on the bridge. They looked as if they were part of this world, not something alien. One was older, about eleven years old, and the other was younger, about nine. They talked among themselves, not noticing her approach, or perhaps not paying attention at all. Mia paused for a moment, watching them. The boys were dressed in simple clothes, the kind you'd see in an old movie. Their costumes were plain and simple, but their faces were alive and their expressions sincere. It was a strange feeling, as if she had returned to her childhood, to some point in time that defied logic. Mia stepped closer, her steps careful but determined. The boys were sitting on the old bridge, oblivious to her approach, but she decided to speak anyway.
"Hey, you," she began, her voice low but trying to be confident.
She felt the air around her grow thicker, as if her questions were being absorbed into space without an answer. The boys didn't look at her, just sat there as if her presence was unimportant to them. Mia felt like she was in a confined space where her words had no power.
"Hi," she tried again, a little more insistently. "Can you help me?"
But the boys just sat there in silence, not changing their positions. Their faces were impassive, their eyes only flickering, as if they saw her but didn't see her at the same time. It felt like they were from another world, from somewhere far away. Their silence felt almost like a challenge. Then Mia dared to take another step, hoping to understand something.
"Why don't you say anything?" she asked, trying to read their faces.
Mia felt her presence become invisible, as if she were an outsider in this moment. The boys continued to sit on the bridge, ignoring her. They were talking, but their conversation was so personal that Mia felt like an intruder, like she was in some intimate situation where she didn't belong. One of the boys spoke calmly, but there was not so much anger in his voice as weariness from everything that was happening. He kept his head down, looking at the river, but his words were directed at his friend.
"They've started again, you know," he said with a heavy sigh. "At school, that time. They're like this all the time. Torment, tease, threaten."
The other boy nodded silently, his face impassive. He was still looking into the distance, as if he was already used to such conversations and knew how to respond to them.
"Well, you know what to do," he said quietly but confidently. "Go and tell them you won't stand for it. If they don't understand, we'll talk seriously."
There was no threat or anger in his voice, just cold determination. But Mia, watching them, noticed that it wasn't anything scary. It was more like a normal response to bullying, a way to defend yourself, to regain confidence.
"Really?" the first boy asked, smiling slightly. "Do you think this will help?"
"Yes," the other boy said, without changing his tone. "Otherwise, they won't understand. But you know how things are. I won't stay away anyway."
Mia felt her nervousness subside a little. It was just a conversation between two boys about how to deal with ordinary school problems, how to respond to insults without letting themselves be offended. Nothing dark or scary. Just ordinary life and childhood experiences. The boys ignored her, continuing to talk among themselves as if she wasn't there. Mia froze, realizing that they didn't want to or couldn't hear her. It was as if her presence was invisible to them. The two boys got up at the same time, working together in silence, and headed for the house, their feet sinking effortlessly into the sand. They didn't look at Mia, didn't pay attention to her, as if she were part of an invisible background that didn't exist for them. Mia, not understanding what was going on, resolutely followed one of them, hoping that she would still be able to attract their attention. She walked slowly but with urgency, a slight worry on her face. She couldn't understand why they were ignoring her, or why she felt like something strange was happening, like she was out of place.
"Hey!" she called out to them, but her voice was an echo, lost in the shadows of their indifference. The boy in the lead didn't respond.
Mia quickened her pace and approached. She tried to find the words to speak to him again, but she still couldn't understand why they didn't notice her. With each step she took, she became more aware of the strange, even frightening distance between them. It seemed that her efforts were just a game on the edge of reality and illusion. The boy she was following didn't notice her footsteps behind him, didn't turn around, and continued on his way. When he reached the porch of the house and opened the door, he still didn't look at her, just stepped inside. Mia stood in the doorway, not daring to enter. Her body was shaking with a vague sense of unease. This place, these boys, and everything else that was happening seemed to be part of an alien reality. She wasn't sure what to do, but she kept standing there by the door, hoping that someone would notice her. The sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, and the sky was turning deep shades of orange and purple, but with each passing moment, the darkness was becoming more palpable. The shadows of the trees stretched, and the air grew colder. Mia felt her heart beat faster with an indescribable fear born from the darkness, a fear that brought her back to her memories. Dusk had already swallowed up everything, leaving only the blurry silhouettes of trees and buildings. Even the sounds of nature, which had once seemed lively and cozy, now sounded muffled and alien. A light wind stirred the leaves, but its cold smell was unusual. Mia tried to gather her thoughts, but the fear of the dark, pressing and growing, was becoming unbearable. She knew she had to go back, find Ed, but she couldn't bring herself to turn around. There was something very appealing about this place, even though it wasn't familiar or safe for her. This strange road, these strange boys, and everything she felt. It was like a challenge, like the world she was in wanted something from her. But the darkness was quickly becoming unbearable. Mia clenched her fists and took a step back, deciding that she should go back to where she came from. One of the boys, the one who talked about school problems, approached the house with a muffled step. He knocked on the door, and the sound of his knock cut through the silence. Mia, still standing in the doorway, turned around. The boy, not noticing her, stood where he was, waiting for an answer.
"Can you let me in?" his voice was low but clear, with a slight awkwardness. "I'd like to stay the night and watch your dad's magic tricks. I love them very much; they are so unusual."
The boy who was already inside responded with obvious displeasure in his voice, but no anger. He opened the door a little wider, standing in a dark hallway that barely showed any light.
"Dad is on tour right now," he said, shrugging. "You know that. But you can see what he taught me. I can do some things now, too."
Mia, unsure of what to do next, decided to step closer. With a sinking heart, she took a step forward, slipping quietly through the open door without being seen by the boys. She didn't know whether to go back or follow them into the house. The suspense grew more and more oppressive, so she made up her mind. Mia went inside and hid in the shadows in the corner of the room, watching the boys. They showed no fear or alarm, just a calm curiosity, almost indifference to what was going on around them. It was strange, but maybe that was what she needed : calmness in this strange moment. She just watched, not interfering. The boys continued to talk, one of them taking old magic tricks out of a box, showing them to the other with childish enthusiasm. He told him how he'd learned these tricks from his father, though Mia guessed it was more imagination than actual magic.
"Here, look," one of the boys said, picking up a few cards. He began to perform the trick with confidence, as if he were an experienced magician. "My dad and I have rehearsed this one many times. He always said that the main thing is not to worry. Here, see how it's done."
Mia continued to stare at them without interfering. Everything seemed so mundane, almost funny. There were no disturbing thoughts in her mind, only an interest in how they would continue. She could almost feel they were playing a part, and there was something funny about it, like a simple child's performance. There was nothing supernatural; everything was as it should be in such a room. The boy continued to proudly perform magic tricks, ignoring the fact that he was doing it more for himself than for an audience. Outwardly, everything was calm and serene, and Mia felt like part of the scene, as if she was just observing something familiar without seeing anything strange about it.
"Hey, teach me that trick! I've always wanted to do something like your dad's."
"Sure, Martin, I'd love to teach you. Dad always said that to become a good magician, you need to train hard and not be afraid to make mistakes."
He began to demonstrate how to hold the cards properly and what to do with them, his movements smooth and confident. Martin watched every gesture carefully, a gleam of admiration in his eyes.
"You see, the main thing is not to worry, and then everything will work out," the boy said, continuing to show the trick.
"It's like it's really magic. I'll practice again at home. Thank you, Adam."
Mia, who was standing in the shadows, finally realized what was happening. Her eyes widened in stunned recognition. It was the same Martin who used to be the clown crying backstage at the circus. And this boy, Adam, was the one who would later bring them to the circus. Her head began to spin and her thoughts became confused. The two boys she was seeing now seemed very different from how she knew them. But at the same time, they were the same. Martin, with his good-natured and helpless air, and Adam, with the confidence with which he taught magic tricks, were the same people, but at a different age, in a different context. Her head was buzzing, as if the world around her was beginning to fall apart. She stared at them, trying to understand what all these memories meant, and what kind of place she was in. Instead of clarity, Mia felt a strange heaviness in her chest. The realization of who these boys were made her thoughts scatter. Unable to stay in the room any longer, she decided to explore the house. Perhaps there was something here that would help her understand what was happening, or at least take her mind off it. She walked carefully to the door and slowly opened it, stepping out into the hallway. But as soon as she stepped through the door, she found that she was not in the house, but on the street. It was as if she hadn't taken a step into another room, but had moved to a completely different place. Mia looked around. This was a school yard. Mia took a step forward, but there was still a heavy shadow of doubt in her chest. She looked around, her gaze skimming the yellow bricks and the antique doors that were unfamiliar. It wasn't just a school. It was a place that wouldn't let her go: clean, quiet, old-fashioned, like a scene from a black-and-white movie, where all the elements are arranged in a single harmony of time. The wind softly rustled the leaves of the trees in the schoolyard. Children in uniforms, as if drawn from old photographs, ran, played, and laughed. Several girls were sitting on one of the benches, their images blurred, as if they were mere shadows. Silhouettes and movements, everything was like a blurry dream. But then her gaze lingered on a poster on the wall, pasted right next to the door. Mia stepped closer, almost in disbelief. 1955. Her head was in a whirl. The sense of reality was gone. It was as if she had slipped out of the usual flow of time and found herself in a different place, in another time, in another life, where even the air was different , heavy, but strangely soothing. Her mind was racing. 1955. It was as if she had fallen into a trap of time from which there was no way out. One of the boys standing nearby suddenly turned his head, and his gaze met hers. But it was a strange sensation; she couldn't understand why it surprised her so much. He didn't look particularly surprised, as if everything was normal here and time itself didn't matter. Mia tore her gaze away and looked around, trying to make sense of what was happening. Suddenly, she heard footsteps coming from behind her, and when she turned around, she saw a couple of boys who seemed to be walking towards the school's exit. One of them was younger; the other had something familiar about him. His figure, like everything else in this place, was from the past, not just a memory, but part of some old, forgotten life. Their faces, even their voices, seemed blurred. There was no sound of cars, no modern technology. Mia heard a familiar voice nearby, and her footsteps slowed. A fat boy, his face blurry and pale, covered in red spots. His clothes weren't quite clean, his shirt was too tight, and his pants seemed to strain over his stomach, trying to hide his extra weight. It was Martin again, but this time in his normal school days. The boys laughed as they continued to tease him. One of them hit Martin hard in the stomach, sending him reeling backwards. His eyes darkened, and his face showed how he clenched inside with humiliation. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to break out of this circle. Martin looked so small and helpless that Mia felt tears start to form in her eyes.
"Cry again, fat boy," one of the boys giggled, crossing his arms over his chest. "What, your dear granny won't help?"
"Hey!" A voice rang out sharply, and it was filled with firmness. The boys turned around, their laughter immediately disappearing. The voice was Adam's, and the boy came closer, his eyes cold. He walked slowly and confidently, his steps sounding like those of someone who knew exactly what he needed to do. When Adam approached the group of boys, his face was calm, but his eyes were intense. The boy who was the most aggressive looked at Adam with narrowed eyes but quickly stepped back, sensing that he had obviously not come to support them. Adam was always agile and laughed in the face of difficulties. Even in such a tense situation, when it seemed things were about to get out of hand, he remained calm and focused. He also knew how to use his ingenuity to come out on top when everyone else was losing their heads.
"What are you doing here?" Adam asked, crossing his arms in displeasure.
Without thinking, the bully unleashed his force, thrusting his fist forward, aiming it at Adam. Adam didn't hesitate; he bent down to avoid the blow and, without warning, performed a small trick, pulling a coin out of the aggressor's pocket. The boy didn't even realize what had happened until the coin disappeared before his eyes. All the children, including those who held Martin in a tight grip, froze in surprise for a second.
"Hey! What did you do?" one of them asked, rubbing his eyes as if he couldn't believe what was happening.
Adam grinned broadly, showing them all the same coin that he had suddenly pulled from his own pocket.
"Just a little magic!" he said in a joking tone and winked, making some of the boys laugh. "Try to take it back."
The bully leaned forward, trying to grab the coin, but Adam cleverly hid it again. He ran to another bully and pulled the coin out of his pocket. The coin was tossed from pocket to pocket, causing the guys to get confused. A small scuffle for the coin began; they had already forgotten about their intention to continue bullying, and Martin was released. Adam decided not to stop there. They were busy and distracted, and this was a great chance to teach them a lesson. Then, as if by magic, he immediately performed another trick: he made the sand on the ground disappear and instantly appear in one of the boys' pants. While the boys were trying to figure this out, Adam glanced at Martin without saying a word and bowed. Martin stood off to the side while his defender dealt with the bullies, his face no longer reflecting the pain he had felt before. He was puzzled by what was happening but also greatly relieved. Mixed feelings filled him. He couldn't believe that all this was happening, that he could feel a little safe again. At one point, Adam signaled for Martin to join him. Martin didn't know what to do right away, but when Adam did another funny trick, making a small cloud of pollen fly into the air, he couldn't help but laugh. This was the first time he had actually smiled. It was as if a magic trick had made him forget the pain and made the world seem brighter again. The bullies, seeing that their intended "victims" were clearly winning, realized that it was no longer worth trying to raise a hand against Martin. They left, snapping at each other, leaving only a cloud of light dust in their wake. Even though it was over, Martin continued to stare at Adam in disbelief, trying to figure out what it all meant.
"They'll stop one day," Adam said, watching the bullies finally leave. His voice was low but confident.
Martin stared at their backs as if he wanted to believe it was true. He felt something inside him melt. This minor hooligan, the son of one of the famous magicians, who was repeatedly threatened with expulsion for his dirty tricks and jokes, had just used his skills for something good. Martin was a little wary of him; the energy that radiated from him both repelled and attracted him. He had threatened his assailants many times, and finally, the words had ended in action.
"Are you sure?" Martin asked, narrowing his eyes a little. "They always come back."
Adam shrugged, smiling slightly. "They can't go on like this forever. You know, sooner or later someone will catch them by the tail."
Martin paused, trying to figure out exactly what he was feeling. Adam was right. Bullies can't continue if no one lets them. "You think I can handle this?" Martin asked quietly.
Adam looked at him, and his eyes were full of confidence. "Of course. And if you need me, I'll be there to help."
The backpack lay on the ground, dirty and battered, almost like part of Martin himself. Adam walked over and picked it up with a smile, carrying it over his shoulder. Martin didn't answer right away, just watched Adam carefully pick up his backpack.
"Thank you, Adam. You're always so helpful."
Adam smiled, not even thinking that it was worth any extra effort. "Of course, we're friends," he said, getting up and walking beside him.
Martin felt something warm fill his chest, even though he hadn't known friendship could be such a support before. Mia stood nearby, watching their interaction. Everything seemed so ordinary: Adam and Martin, the two boys, and the general ease with which they shared everything, even the weight of the backpack. But there were questions in her mind that were bothering her."Friends? Are they really friends? " thought Mia, getting more lost in her thoughts with each step. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. She'd seen how Adam and Martin had interacted, how Adam had taken care of the backpack without a second thought, as if it were a matter of course. But for Mia, it was strange. She knew Adam, or at least thought she did. And this Adam, with that nonchalant expression on his face, with which he so easily solved any problems, was different. And even stranger, Martin, with his invisible vulnerability, was far more complex than she'd ever imagined."Are they really friends? " She wondered again. The word sounded so simple, but everything she'd seen so far cast doubt on everything she'd thought about Martin and Adam. She couldn't help but look around, her gaze skimming over their figures, and then she felt something darkening in her soul again. Mia couldn't stand by any longer; her curiosity and desire to find answers were increasingly consuming her. She resolutely started looking for a way out, or at least some sign that might lead her to a new place where she could see another piece of what was happening to Martin and Adam. Her footsteps were getting faster, and her eyes were keenly watching every turn, every door, every suspicious area. Everything around her seemed to be part of a mosaic world, where every detail could be important, and every door could hide a new layer of their past. She remembered their conversation, how Adam had been so confident with Martin, and how Martin, for all his naivety and childish helplessness, had sought support in this difficult world. But something wasn't coming together in her head. Adam and Martin were connected. Without stopping, she kept moving, her eyes focused on each step. Suddenly, her eyes fell on an old, slightly worn door. It wasn't particularly remarkable, but something stirred in her mind. Perhaps this is where the answer will be. Maybe this door will lead her to a place where she will meet a new fragment of their past, where she will finally unravel why everything revolves around Martin's memories, and she herself is plunging deeper into this strange world. With each step, her confidence grew stronger. She stepped closer, her hand touching the cold doorknob. And at that moment, she felt something stir inside her, as if the room itself was waiting for her to take the next step. Mia pushed the door open hesitantly. It opened, and before Mia could prepare, she was back in the same arena, surrounded by noisy spectators and bright lights. Ahead of them, on the stage, stood the magician in the top hat, the same mysterious man, with a face almost identical to Adam's, but younger, more confident, with such clear, sharp features. He was looking directly at her, his gaze sharp but not angry. He wasn't surprised to see her, as if he'd expected her. His voice boomed out, and the audience turned back to the stage, frozen in anticipation of another stunt. Mia felt her heart beat faster; every step the magician took was choreographed, part of something bigger. She didn't know what to do, but she clearly sensed that her presence here wasn't accidental. Mia stood in the center of the stage, amid the flickering lights and the tense waiting of the audience. It was like being in a half dream, not sure how she got here, not sure what she was supposed to do. However, the magician, without saying a word, just gave her a look to let her know that she had to go on alone. He turned back to the wings and, ignoring the crowd, slowly stepped into the dark lane, disappearing behind the curtain. Mia stood there, still mesmerized by his calmness and strange confidence. This wasn't a moment where you could just leave; her steps weren't directed just by chance. She felt that she had to go on, to follow him. The audience began to whisper impatiently, to look at each other, but for Mia it was all gone; they were unimportant. Only the magician's footsteps, only his silent invitation to move to where she now belonged, mattered. She took a step toward the wings. Her body moved without asking her mind for permission. It wasn't just a reaction; it was an inner conviction. There was no fear or doubt behind this move. She felt that this path, although fraught with many questions, was the only possible one for her if she wanted to understand what was happening and what would happen to her next. The room behind her was still bustling and busy, but for her, it seemed as if everything she had once known had ceased to exist. She didn't look back, didn't think about what had happened here before. Everything was completely different, as if the magician had stepped offstage and opened up a new world for her. A world where there is no logic, no explanation. As she stepped backstage, she noticed that the magician had simply disappeared. Mia was standing in the shadow of the wings, standing a little to one side so as not to attract attention. She couldn't take her eyes off Martin. He was different. Even here, in this strange place, his face was no longer the same as in her memories. With every minute she spent with him, she could feel the line that connected him to the present growing hazier, as if his existence here was just a pale reflection of who he was. How much she had gone through trying to understand who they all were, and how this place connected to reality, to her reality. But now, looking at Martin, she realized that this world was not only alien to him; it was dangerous for him. And the more she tried to understand, the less clear the answer became. He was as vulnerable as he'd ever been, and maybe her presence here wasn't just an accident. She remembered him sitting on the floor once, a boy like her, holding his backpack full of old toys, broken pencils, and dried candy. He was just like all the other kids, but his world, his experiences, were always a little different, a little more complicated, hidden under the surface. Mia remembered how she often tried to understand him, and often couldn't. She didn't think she'd find any answers here, but she felt even more strongly that she needed to keep looking for some clue, some small fragment that would give her some clarity. She closed her eyes and took a step to the side. But it was his face that caught her attention again: uncertain, lost, like a child who has to do the impossible without knowing how to do it. She realized how much he always tried to be strong, even when the whole world was against him. Now Martin was a friend. And Mia couldn't leave him alone, couldn't let him stay here, confused, oblivious of himself. Holding her breath, she took another step and approached him cautiously, almost inaudibly. Ed and Martin held their gazes as if waiting for her reaction, and there was something unsettling about it. Mia looked around at them, as if confirming to herself that everything she felt was true. Nothing was random. She turned to Martin, her lips twitching slightly, but she didn't say a word. She just ran her hand over his shoulder, as if trying to convey something important that he might not even be aware of. Martin didn't say a word in reply, but his gaze softened, as if there was something human in it again, something familiar. Mia felt a strange feeling that grew with each step. The sympathy she felt for Martin wasn't just fleeting; it wasn't just pity. It was something deep, almost intuitive, as if her soul could feel his loneliness, his unbearable pain behind that bright mask. It was as if she was somehow connected to him through his inner emptiness and suffering that he couldn't express. Mia, her heart racing with excitement, approached him cautiously. She could see him standing there, almost motionless, absorbed in his own thoughts, but his eyes, his eyes weren't as blank as they used to be. It gave her hope that he is not so far from the world, that he can understand that they are here for a reason. She spoke softly, not wanting to frighten or offend him.
"Martin… you… You know Adam, don't you?" Her voice was soft, almost invisible in the noise of the circus, as if she was embarrassed to be asking such a question.
Martin flinched, as if struck, when Mia said the name "Adam." His face was set in stone, his eyes narrowed, and his body tensed, as if she had touched something painful, buried deep. Something snapped inside him, like a spring about to uncoil. Mia saw his lips tighten and his hands clench around his head, as if that was his only way to hold on to something real, something that would keep him from falling apart. He didn't look at her, but Mia sensed that he was trying to get away from that memory, from the very thought of it. He didn't say anything. But his gaze, even though it was fixed on nothing, still revealed something painfully familiar. It was not anger. It was not fear, but something deeper, something like resistance or alienation. He didn't want to remember. He did not want to be tied to that name, which seemed to bring only shadows and pain with it. Mia, sensing his inner tension, took a step back but did not turn away. She could not leave him in this shadow, in this state of being closed off, as if in an internal battle. He was connected to something that was too heavy for him. And she knew she couldn't pull him out of this fight right away, but she could be there for him. Her gaze never left his, even though he didn't respond. It was all in the silence, in the tension that hung in the air. Martin remained silent, but Mia sensed that he couldn't get away from what was associated with that name. And maybe that was all he could do right now. Not say it, not explain it, but at least admit that the name was still a part of him, like an inescapable shadow of the past. Martin gritted his teeth, his fingers gripping his head even tighter, as if trying to keep himself from being torn to pieces. A strange noise began to build up in his head, as if something was cracking, breaking from the inside. Flashes of alien and painful images filled his mind, trying to escape. They were not the memories he wanted to remember. Each new memory weighed on his mind like a heavy weight. Loud voices, laughter. A laugh that always sounded not in joy, but in malice. Eyes that looked at him with disdain, hands that gripped him, making him feel insignificant. He could see their faces, but he could not remember their names. These memories haunted him. They were like knives tearing at his insides. Martin could barely contain himself. His hands began to shake, and his breathing became shallow and rapid. His eyes were blank, but there was something burning in them. Pain and rage hidden behind a thick wall of silence. He wanted to just run away, close his eyes and let it all disappear, but he stood there, trying not to let his memories take over completely. And all he could do was remain silent, hiding his pain so that he would not show it to those around him. Mia, seeing how much he was suffering, intuitively knew that now was not the time for words. She just stayed quietly by his side, trying not to force more questions on him. But there was the same light in her eyes, a desire to help, even if he was not ready to accept help yet. She just stayed there, feeling that Martin must find the strength to pull himself out of this dark web of his own memories. Something in his expression changed. There was no longer blankness in his eyes, but determination. His steps became steady. Mia and Ed noticed it right away. Something was stirring in him. He seemed to have found a way out of his own maze. Without a word, Martin turned and headed for the nearest door. His movements were quick but precise, as if he knew exactly what should be behind this exit. He was no longer the lost man they had seen. It was as if he was someone else now, a man who had found his way through the chaos. Mia and Ed followed. They didn't know exactly where he was taking them yet, but his confidence was infectious. All they could do was trust him. He, like them, was not here by accident, and if his path led to some new reality, they were ready to follow him. Martin went to the door, which had once seemed like a part of this strange circus but now looked like something important. Not just a passage, but a continuation of the path. He grabbed the handle, feeling its familiar weight, and opened the door without looking back. For a moment, silence filled the space, but then the door swung open. There was no circus scene outside the door. Instead, they were back in that corridor lined with photographs, where each image was connected to a specific moment from the past, and for some reason, the lights were already on. Martin kept walking, and none of the kids dared to stop him. He turned around, his eyes determined, but there was still a shadow of doubt in them. Another door, and they were in a familiar place. In the first room, Mia and Ed looked around, surprised to find themselves back there. It was the same room they had met Martin in. Everything was as it had been before. Martin returned to his old place at the table, his eyes tired. He didn't look at the children, didn't meet their eyes. He just sat down in his seat and put his hands on the table as if he was tired of everything. His face was a mask again, and even though it was just a shell, it still hid something much deeper inside. His voice was low but urgent. He didn't look at them, but the words were still too harsh to leave any room for doubt.
"You need to leave."
Mia and Ed stood there, not knowing what to do. Everything they had experienced, all their emotions, seemed to lose their meaning in this room, which once again absorbed them into its strange world. Mia took a tentative step forward, but her words were interrupted by Martin's silent gesture. He raised his hand as if to push them away. His eyes were not empty, but they hid so much pain that Mia felt a tightness in her chest. Ed did not say anything. He knew that Martin was not just pushing them away but shutting them off from something much bigger than they could possibly imagine. Perhaps he needed time to sort himself out. Maybe he was ready to find a way out, but not with them. Not with these kids, who had only been a part of his life for a short time. Mia felt her heart sink, but she could not bring herself to leave.
"We are not leaving you, Martin," she said, and her voice was firm despite her doubts. She could not just turn around and walk away when there was so much pain in his eyes.
But Martin shook his head again, unable to meet their eyes. "Please… just go."
His voice was softer, but no less urgent. Mia felt her resolve begin to waver. She wanted to stay and continue trying to help, but she didn't know if that was what Martin really needed. Maybe he needed solitude to sort himself out. She couldn't figure out what exactly he wanted. Mia stood motionless, her eyes alight with determination. She was not going to leave, no matter what was happening around her. Martin was begging them to leave, and his voice was getting more desperate, but Mia couldn't leave him. She couldn't just turn around and walk away when she saw him suffer. He was trapped, not just physically, but mentally, and she had to help him, even if he didn't ask for it.
"Martin, we are not leaving," she said firmly, not doubting her decision.
But his reaction was instantaneous, and at that moment something in him broke, as if his inner world was beginning to collapse. He began to move convulsively, his body twisting, changing. His face was contorted with pain, and there was a kind of mad rage in his eyes. Martin grew taller. His shadow stretched out, and suddenly he seemed bigger than he was, as if his whole insides were being torn apart and he wanted to burst out. He began to look less like a man and more like something huge, unnatural, like a monster.
"Go away!" His voice was no longer a request, but a command.
He was shouting, but he was not just shouting. It was like a beast roaring. His body became huge, and his arms, which had previously seemed ordinary, began to expand and become covered with a dark crust, as if his very being was turning into something else. He stood in front of them, a distorted figure full of aggression and fear. This was not the person they knew. Martin lost his shape. His face stretched into an eerie grimace, and his eyes looked like empty holes. It was not just fear. It was an unbearable despair that was being torn apart from the inside.
"I said… GO AWAY!" His words mingled with the roar, and his body began to grow and sway, as if it were trying to tear apart reality itself.
There was something monstrous and inexplicable about his movements, but he kept shouting as if he was begging them to leave so that they wouldn't be a part of what was happening to him. Martin, who had become a monster, moved with incredible speed. His body, now huge and ugly, was like something alien and cruel, defying the laws of nature. It was as if he had become a storm, ready to swallow up everything in his path. Sharp and inescapable, he lunged in their direction, giving them no time to react, no time to explain, no time to forgive. Mia and Ed, as if on cue, both turned and ran forward, not knowing where exactly, just fleeing from this terrible entity that had just been their friend. The fear they felt was not just instinctive. It was a sense of absolute menace, as if the very reality in front of them was splitting apart and they were on the verge of disappearing. Martin did not shout. He did not express his anger in words. His actions spoke for him. He was turning into his own fears, relentless and destructive, which simply left no choice.
"Run!" Ed shouted it out loud.
Their feet were moving faster than ever. They didn't dare look back. They didn't want to know how close Martin was, because they knew that if they delayed their pace, it would be the end. They didn't have the energy or the ability to think about what would happen next. They ran out of the corridor and found themselves back in the children's maze. Narrow passages, vivid but frightening images, and the feeling that reality was distorted here. Mia felt her heart sink. They were back in this strange world, where every move felt like a step into the unknown. The maze was full of sounds. Each step echoed, giving off the feeling that someone was watching them. The walls seemed to breathe, to whisper, and every shadow that lurked in the corner created the illusion that this world had a life of its own, hidden from view. The fear that grew with each step made it impossible to stop, but Mia sensed that this place knew something about them after all. As before, the maze was filled with children's drawings and toys, but it was all distorted, like a nightmare. There was something strange, unnatural about it, as if all these elements did not belong in this world. They couldn't stop. The maze, as if it had its own will, led them wherever it wanted. Just as they were about to retreat, a strange sound came from the depths of the maze, as if something or someone was calling their names. Mia felt her surroundings freeze, and space seemed to contract, as if the maze had closed in behind them again. Mia looked at Ed. There was the same horror in his eyes that she felt. Fear. Not understanding what was happening and feeling that something had changed. They had just run from a monster, and the world was not any safer. On the contrary, it became even more unpredictable. Mia did not know what to say. Everything that was happening was beyond comprehension. The only thing she felt was the need to find a way out, and find it as quickly as possible. They couldn't stay in this place without knowing what might happen next. Martin, distorted and scary, was a living reminder that they should not trust everything they saw. A clown in a maze, the darkness immediately wrapped around him like a heavy spiderweb, filling the space with cold and muffled, unbearable whispers. The corridors meandered endlessly, like the dead ends he had wandered through before, feeling lost and isolated. He knew that the children were hidden, and he went around one of the corners, his footsteps sounding hollow, as if he were walking through a thick layer of snow, creaking under his feet.
"Hiding? I don't like hide and seek, remember?" He whispered under his breath, feeling his voice sink in this blank space. The phrase sounded like a mockery.
The children knew that their only chance was to escape, to outwit him, to make him lose track. But in this maze of distorted corridors and reflections, there were no easy paths. Every movement was an effort, because the feeling of Martin's presence was unbearable. His giant shadow fell everywhere. They could feel his gaze, almost palpable, moving in their direction, as if the maze itself had become his ally. Mia looked around, checking every passageway. Everything was covered in shadow, as if the maze itself was alive, ready to devour them if they did not hurry. She could see Ed moving through the darkness, also hiding, his eyes piercing every shadow. His face was tense, but there was determination in it. The girl started to crawl forward, but her hand found nothing, and she froze, feeling a cold despair creep over her body. Ed also tried to crawl, but his steps were just as futile. Mia pressed herself against the wall, her footsteps barely touching the floor, her heart pounding in her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the clown's shadow moving in her direction, merging into the darkness, getting closer by the moment. She froze, not moving, not making a sound. Her head was empty. There were no thoughts, no words, just a cold determination not to get caught. All that was left was to remain unnoticed. Ed, in turn, was moving in a different direction. He moved cautiously, step by step, avoiding every turn, as if Martin's shadow was watching his every move. He could see Mia in the distance, and their eyes met for a moment, but they didn't exchange a word or gesture. The silence between them was absolute. He didn't dare look back either. Not now. Then the shadow flashed again, a jolt of fear rooting Ed to the spot. His heart was pounding so hard that it seemed to echo with every step Martin took. Martin was close. There was a strange heaviness in his movements, as if he was becoming part of the maze, absorbing its dark corridors. He didn't look for them on the way. He didn't hurry, but his presence was unbearably palpable. Every step he took remained invisible, but felt in the depths of their souls, as if he could sense their fear, as if the maze itself was a reflection of him. With every turn, the children took cover, hiding in dark corners, not moving, holding their breath. And every time Martin passed by, they could hear his heavy breathing, hear his shadow drift by. He searched for them with his eyes, but his presence was so bright and strong that it cut a path behind it, like darkness filling space. Time was losing its meaning. There were no landmarks. The maze seemed endless. Then, as Mia took another step, she felt something cold slide across her skin. Martin was closer than she had thought. But her legs wouldn't move. She stood there, mesmerized, until the shadow passed without noticing her. Ed, seeing Mia continue to move, cautiously crawled over to her side. But the maze was merciless. It defied logic. Every step seemed like a step into the void, every turn leading to nowhere. He saw Mia suddenly disappear around another corner. He needed to be close to her. He couldn't make a single wrong move. Martin stopped in the center of the maze, his footsteps quieter, but his breathing remained heavy and strained, as if he did not know what he was doing. He could not see the children, but he could feel their presence, as if his very being was connected to this place, to this dark world they were exploring. He took a few steps forward and stopped to listen. The maze remained silent, but it didn't let him rest. There was fire in his eyes, something ancient and wild beyond control.
"Come out," Martin said with difficulty, his voice uncertain, but still with a desperate, almost pleading tone. "I won't hurt you. I told you to leave."
His words didn't sound like threats. They sounded more like an attempt to regain control of the situation. He didn't understand what was going on. He didn't understand why the children were hiding from him again and again, why he couldn't find them. Deep down, he didn't want to hurt them, but his own demons were bursting out, pulling him toward what he was trying so hard to avoid. He took another step, and his figure seemed even more unstable, as if it was based on uncertainty. But at the same time, there was a firmness in his voice that would not let go.
"I won't follow you. Stop hiding. Just get out," he said, but his words were lost in the relentless silence of the maze.
The children listened with bated breath. It didn't sound like a normal threat, but more like desperation. They couldn't take the risk. They couldn't afford to fall into the trap of his words. They knew that any wrong move of theirs could lead to irreparable consequences. Ed crawled carefully and quietly through the maze, trying not to make the slightest noise. The dark corridors stretched out into the distance, and it seemed to him that the very air around him was too heavy, that his every movement seemed to leave traces that could be easily noticed. He remembered that as they were making their way here, they noticed a shoe lying on the floor, and a spoon next to it. He had not paid attention to it, so preoccupied with finding a safe place to hide. As he moved along the maze wall, his hand brushed against it just a little. Instantly, with a barely audible metallic clink, the spoon rolled across the floor. The sounds of its fall echoed through the empty corridors of the maze. At that moment, a shrill voice broke the silence. Martin suddenly popped out of the shadows, his face contorted with aggression, as if all the inner tension had been released.
"Gotcha!" His voice boomed out, literally shaking the air, and Ed instantly felt time slow down. Everything inside him turned cold, and his heart skipped a few beats.
Ed halted abruptly, his breath catching in his throat. The spoon bounced across the floor and stopped at the base of the tube slide. At that moment, the boy's panic broke out, and he, without thinking about the consequences, rushed towards it. His feet barely touched the floor until he reached its entrance, feeling Martin's approach with every step. He managed to jump inside and roll down. Mia, seeing Ed run, couldn't stand by. She looked around quickly, trying to figure out how to distract Martin, and when she saw his approaching figure, she took a step toward him. Martin lunged for her, but she dodged. Mia turned quickly and ran toward the slide without thinking, hearing footsteps behind her, faster and faster. She could hear his breathing, his aggressive footsteps coming toward her. But she couldn't stop herself. Mia didn't look back when she reached the tube slide. She didn't think about what might happen if Martin caught up with her. All she felt was that she had to get out. At least Ed had to be saved. She jumped into the slide, burying her head in its darkness, feeling her body slide down. Both of them found themselves in an ornamental house that suddenly appeared in front of them. They both felt that this place was not what it was supposed to be. It was not just a house, but rather a collection of strange, distorted memories, decorative images that sometimes seemed alive, and sometimes just ghosts of the past. Martin burst in behind them, his height defying any laws of physics, and the walls of the house began to crack under the weight of his body. Martin was gigantic, so huge that it looked as if the whole house might collapse from his presence. Every move he made sounded like trees breaking and bricks cracking. The furniture began to crumble, falling with a savage screech. The windows cracked, and glass rained down like hot, sharp shards. Martin, who had become almost unrecognizable, moved through the house with rage and despair, not realizing that he was destroying not only it, but everything around him. Ed and Mia were jumping from one piece of the crumbling interior to another, horror in their eyes. They knew that they were trapped, that every move they made could be their last. Martin did not seem to feel any pain or fatigue. There was an empty, aggressive look in his eyes, as if he was part of the destruction. They held their breath, able to hide in the rubble of their once home, their hearts pounding in their ears. Every move they made seemed incredibly important, because one wrong, unnecessary move and they would be visible. Mia gasped, trying not to breathe, her chest clenching with tension. She felt her body become alien, as if at that moment she was no longer a living person, but only some cold and lifeless object, ready to disappear into this eerie place to remain unnoticed. Ed was there, his body tensed to the limit. He couldn't and should not have moved. He stood there like a stone, afraid that if even his foot touched the floor, this terrible monster would notice immediately. At this moment, he was part of this shattered world, part of something that was already doomed. But his eyes were searching for safety, skimming the dimly lit corners where light shone through the cracks, searching for some shelter, even a small shadow to hide in. However, all attempts to escape seemed futile. Martin was almost everywhere. He came closer with every step, his huge hands moving across the room, and each time his silhouette became clearer, closer. Martin was breathing hard, like an animal catching its prey, and every breath he took was a threat. When he was almost there, his gaze slid past them, and the children almost had to stop themselves from moving. All that remained was a silence that grew increasingly threatening, like a fog filling the room. The man slowly wandered through the rooms of the ruined toy house. His massive footsteps thudded against the walls. Dust fell from the ceiling with every movement, and cardboard wallpaper was torn from the walls. He paused, listening, then turned abruptly, as if seeing something out of the corner of his eye. He was not just wandering. He was remembering. The narrow corridors, the children's furniture, the upholstery with patterns that made him feel sick. All this he had already seen. He was here. He had lived here. Martin sat down heavily on the floor of the hallway that had once been the hallway of his grandmother's house. Toy, fake, but painfully familiar. His knees hit the plank floor with a thud, and the impact sent a vibration through the walls, as if the house had shuddered with him. Huge hands clutched at his head, fingers scratching at his skin, as if he wanted to shake out what was beginning to wake up. He rocked back and forth, slowly, desperately, like a forgotten child on the edge of a dream from which he could not wake. His breathing became ragged. A sound, a heavy crash, and he sat down on the floor. Then a muffled wheeze, then a sob, heavy and uneven. He began to sob. Silently, almost dejectedly, as if he had no right to cry. His eyes, once lined with clown paint, flowed with streams of real, salty, human tears. The body was still huge and distorted, but there was no threat in it now, just an exhausted melancholy. Mia crouched in disbelief. Her heart was pounding in her throat. She didn't dare move, not out of fear, but to avoid breaking the fragility of the moment. Even Ed, who was hiding on the other side of the room, tensed up.
"Grandma? Are you here?" Martin gasped.
The words came out of his mouth softly, uncertainly, as if he was afraid of being overheard. His voice was not a growl, nor a circus intonation, nor a whisper of an animal. It was the voice of a boy. Lost, lonely, and terribly tired. He did not wait for an answer. He just couldn't hold back the part of himself that had been living deep inside for so many years. The part that missed her. That remembered. That wanted to go home. Martin didn't look up. His shoulders were still shaking, sagging heavily with each breath. It was as if he hadn't heard the voice right away or didn't want to. But the words were already seeping in, filling the cracks in his mind, hitting him in the gut.
"Martin… she is not here."
The man's voice was not loud, but it was clear. It was not hostile. It was not compassionate. There was weariness, understanding, and something else, almost regret. Adam. He stood like a rock, stepped closer, put a hand on his shoulder, hesitantly, as if he was afraid to face the person Martin had been only a few minutes ago. A monster. A shadow of pain. The one who scared the kids.
"She is not here," he repeated in a lower voice.
The house was quiet again, as if the walls were listening. Somewhere between the cabinet, behind the chair, Dee held a finger to her lips. Her eyes darted, intense, focused. She had found the children. Mia was lying low, and so was Ed. They looked at the adults, at Martin, at Adam, not daring to move. Martin was silent for a long time. The soft sobs slowly faded away, turning into hoarse, empty breaths. His shoulders were heavy, as if more years were falling on them by the second. He did not turn around, just sat in the hallway, staring at the floor as if trying to see through the cracks in the linoleum something lost, something from the past. Adam knelt beside him. Not too close, just a little further away. Carefully. Almost reverently. His voice was flat, almost emotionless. There was no reproach, no tenderness, only weariness.
"I need you to calm down now. Go back to your room. Please."
Martin started and turned slowly to face him. There was pain in his eyes, too human for the monstrous mask he had become. He swallowed hard, clutching the floor with shaking hands.
"No… Stop. Stop taking away my memories."
Adam pursed his lips. He did not approach, did not extend his hand. He just sat there, holding his friend's gaze, which was a mixture of fear, hope, and doom.
"Please…" Martin broke into a whisper. "Let me go…"
His shoulders were shaking. He did not try to hold back any longer. He pleaded like a child being chased back into a dark closet.
"I would let you go. But you know I cannot."
He spoke slowly, choosing his words as if each one bore the weight of years gone by. He did not reproach or persuade. He just stated it, softly, without pressure, with tired honesty. Martin stood transfixed for a heartbeat. Then he straightened up like a spring, his face contorting not with anger, but with bitterness. And suddenly, breaking into a cry, choked and hoarse, as if it were bursting out of his chest through tears and ashes:
"Adam… I am dead. You are dead. You are gone. So are these kids. It does not make sense to us anymore! Why are you doing this? I'm tired…"
Adam stiffened, as if the shadow of her words had struck him physically. He didn't move, but his eyes were fixed somewhere between Martin and the void. His stomach clenched. He hoped, prayed, that the children had not heard. That the words that had been spoken in this puppet set had faded into silence, like whispers lost in the wind. He wanted them to stay in their own world, even if that world didn't exist for a long time. But the dream was shattered by the truth. Mia and Ed were standing in the doorway, and there was no surprise in their eyes, only genuine horror. Not the kind that comes from a loud sound or darkness, but deep, piercing, silent. It spread over the body, deprived of support, knocked the air out of the lungs. Mia seemed to shrink, her shoulders slumped, and her hands gripped the remains of the door frame as if it might hold her back. Ed looked older, too old for his age. His mouth was set in a thin line, and his eyes were straight and heavy, too heavy for a child. They heard everything. They couldn't pretend anymore. The world was different now, without color, without movement, without hope. Space seemed petrified. Even the house, strange, crumbling, creaking with the weight of other people's memories, fell utterly still, as if it had also realized what had been said. There was no sound. Only the occasional gasp, the dull crackle of wood under Martin's weight, and the pounding, not external, but internal, of the heart, the mind, the memory. It was not a fall. It was an awakening. Painful, slow, inescapable. And the children finally understood: there would be no turning back. What kind of "home" Adam had promised them was unclear now. Dee was standing a little way off, but her eyes were burning. It was no louder than a whisper, no sharper than a shout, but it weighed more than any word. She was looking at Adam with that peculiar look of mingled resentment and annoyance that was simmering slowly but inexorably. It was the look of someone who had been silent for too long. She did not say anything, but her posture said everything: the tightness in her face, the tightness in her cheekbones, the narrowed eyes, the trembling fingers. Her eyes darted back and forth between Adam and the children, and there, in those brief glances, a silent rage was born. Not theatrical, but real. Because it seemed to her that the children always knew. Perhaps they didn't fully understand it, but they felt it, guessed it, and lived in it, each time they came across a lie wrapped in care. And now everything was obvious. All his "calm down," all his "I will tell you later," all his evasions. All this to prolong the illusion. The kids didn't trust him before, and now they would not. And it was not Martin's fault. It was not anyone else's. It was his fault, Adam's. The one who took on the role of a guide, but got lost first. Everything seemed to slow down: the shattered doll walls, the dust that was slowly settling after the recent chaos, the children's breathing in the corner, Dee's gaze. But loudest of all was the silence in Adam himself. It hummed, filling every cell in his body. He was looking at Martin, and there was so much in that look: the past that wouldn'tt let go, the guilt that no "I'm sorry" could erase, and the love that remained, no matter what. He knew that this was the moment when he could no longer hide behind reasoning, behind fear, behind responsibilities. He could feel his fingers trembling, not from fear, but from the fact that it was time to let go. Not a figure, not an image, not a being, but a friend. Adam took a slow breath and took a step closer. He did not say anything. No words were needed. Martin was still sitting on the floor, hugging his shoulders like a child who had waited too long for a hug. Wet lines of tears streaked across his painted face, blurring the paint, turning his makeup into something shapeless and vulnerable. He exhaled, and there was no rage in the exhalation, only weariness, old, old, as if it had been accumulating for ages. For a moment, the air around him became lighter, clearer, as if space itself was responding to his pain. The dust no longer settled, but rose in soft, golden clouds, sparkling in a light that had never been there before. It was as if someone unseen had opened a window into a long forgotten spring. Martin looked up. The hallway became quiet. It was too quiet. No child's breathing, no anxious eyes, not even his own fear. Only heat. It was as if he were back in the same house, a real one, not made of plywood and cardboard, but of the smells of baking, old curtains, and rough rugs. He knew it was not a hallucination. Not another trick. It was a call. He slowly got to his feet. His body no longer seemed heavy, twisted with malice, alien. It became increasingly transparent, as if it was being erased from the scene. His footsteps made no sound. His face softened. For a very short time, he was the boy who had once held his grandmother's hand and looked at the world with confidence. And then he saw her. No one else could see her, just him. She was silhouetted against the light. No words, not a single reproach. Just a soft smile. That is the one. Martin started, then stopped. He took a step. Then the second one. And with each step, his outline grew brighter, blurrier. The space behind him was beginning to tighten, as if it had never been there. Before disappearing completely, he looked back. His eyes met Adam's.
"Come to my circus after we graduate. You are a great joker. I think you will make a good clown." Adam's voice sounded like it came from the other end of time.
"Are you sure your uncle will accept me?"
"I'm sure."
No anger, no regret. Just a little forgiveness. Undeclared but complete. And then he was gone. Only silence remained. And the faint smell of vanilla that was slowly fading in the air. Adam stood with his fists clenched, as if a boy who had lost a friend for the first time had been born in him again. There were no more words. Only the echoes of a warm summer, the sound of old carousels and carefree laughter that went with Martin into a space where pain no longer lives. Dee stared at Adam for a long moment, at first reproachful, almost angry, as if accusing him of keeping everything inside for too long, of deceiving the children, of being afraid of the truth himself. Her eyes were hard and her lips were pursed, but for a second her gaze softened. The corners of her mouth twitched, and the tension drained from her face as if it had been washed away. It was not a wide smile, not forced, just a thin line, like a glimmer of light through dense clouds. Adam looked down. Something seemed to be squeezing his throat, making it impossible for him to take a breath or say a word. He felt a lump of shame grow in his chest, pressing down, as if the lead inside him was pulling everything down. He did not dare look at the children, at their white faces, at their eyes. Mia stood stiff as a spring. Her fingers trembled as they clenched into fists, as if she was trying to find some sort of foothold in reality. Ed, usually the first to defend, looked past Adam, not directly, not reproachfully, just past him. Adam could feel the wall growing between them with every passing moment. Invisible, but heavy. He did not know what to say. All the words that once seemed comforting or necessary would now sound pathetic and false. In the silence that followed, all that could be heard was his breathing, ragged, frightened, and heavy. Adam looked up again, briefly, furtively. The eyes of the children reflected not only the truth that they did not ask to know, but also something more: betrayal. He didn't lie out loud to them, but he was not completely honest with them. And now that knowledge stabbed through him like a knife. Mia was looking straight at him, not trembling, not looking away, but there was a fragility in her voice, as if a word spoken a little louder could destroy everything.
"So… we are not going home?"
The question didn't sound like a reproach or an accusation. It was the quiet plea of a child who had hoped until the last moment that the adults would fix everything, that the nightmares were temporary, that the morning would come for them. But now Mia already knew. She just wanted someone to confirm it. Or maybe she wanted him to deny it. Adam seemed to shrink. Every word he could have said felt like a betrayal. He didn't answer right away. He didn't even look up. His silence was more eloquent than any sentence. There was recognition, regret, and pain in it. Ed couldn't hold back any longer. His hands were trembling, his face was flushed with anger, and his voice broke, rising sharply to a shout.
"You knew everything!" he shouted, glaring at Adam with fury. "You knew everything from the beginning! Why didn't you tell us?! Why did you pretend that everything would be fine?!"
He took a step forward, as if he wanted to strike, or just get close enough to keep Adam from looking away.
"You took us around this damn circus! You said you would help! And we are… dead?!" Ed threw up his hands, as if he didn't know what to do with this body, this voice, this truth that was pressing in like a concrete slab.
He was breathing heavily, almost choking on the words and tears that he still wouldn't allow himself to shed. His face was flushed, and his voice was broken, the emotions of a child who had lost everything in an instant. The silence hung thick and heavy in the air, like fog before a storm. Ed stood there, shocked and pale, then slowly turned to Dee, as if he had just become aware of her presence. His gaze was sharp, full of despair and rage, like an animal that has been pinned to the wall.
"And you?" he hissed, his voice shaking. "You knew, too. From the very beginning. Did you lie too?"
Dee's head snapped up. Her face didn't have the usual softness. She straightened up, but did not take a step toward him, as if she knew not to approach.
"I-" she began, but Ed was not listening.
Dee shook her head, but without trying to justify herself. Ed snapped, screaming with all the pain that had accumulated over the hours, the days. How long had it been? They didn't know. All was mixed up. Dee paused. There were no words, no gestures, only a piercing, heavy silence. She stared at Adam as if every word he said, every unspoken truth, was a knife in her throat. Her eyes were full of disappointment. Not anger. No. Not even pain. Exactly frustration. Deep, tired, something that doesn'tt scream, but burns more than any hysteria. The silence was a thick blanket, as if reality itself was holding its breath. Mia was looking directly at Adam. There was no longer any confusion in her eyes, only weariness and despair clenched in a dry throat.
"Where are we really going?" she finally asked, softly, but so that everyone in the room could hear.
Adam didn't answer quickly. His lips parted, then closed again. He closed his eyes, as if for a moment he wanted to disappear or go back to the past, where everything could still be changed. But you cannot. He exhaled. Simply, smoothly, calmly, without theater. His voice sounded like he was not trying to deceive anyone anymore. Even himself.
"Where everyone goes."
There was no need to say anything else. This phrase didn't sound like an explanation, but like a sentence. It hung in the air like ashes on top of ashes.
Chapter 6: Revelation
Chapter Text
You are dead. That is all. Simple as taking a breath. Short as a snap of your fingers. You are no longer here. More precisely, you are somewhere in the middle. What does it feel like to hear the truth that you cannot escape? Are you crying? Are you shouting? Refusing to believe? Or do you freeze, suddenly realizing that deep inside you guessed? People say, "The main thing is not to be late." What if you are already late? If all the good things are left behind, and even sadness has no place left? You can blame, pray, despair. But you are already dead. And before you lies the last path. A bridge between worlds. The line between the past and the future. What will you take with you? Guilt? Anger? Recent memories? Or the hand of someone who is nearby, so as not to be left alone? You are dead. But death is not a door that slams shut with a bang. It is more of a whisper that rings in your ears when everything else fades away. Death is not a horror, not a punishment, not a finale. It is an expectation. It is a bridge. You go through it without knowing what exactly awaits at the end. Some of you hope that your mother will give you the same hug as before. Someone remembers the taste of ice cream. Someone else still believes that all this is a dream but you are not sleeping. Until you get there, it is still possible. You can be angry. You can forgive. You can even play as if it is your birthday, as if it is the last one, but not a terrible one. But you are no longer alive. You are just ghosts. The pulse in your fingers is just a memory of your heart. Laughter echoes off into the void. The words tremble in the air like the lines of an unfinished fairy tale. And here you are, at this breaking point in the world. Childhood is still there, but it is no longer yours. The adults are still around, but not the same as they were. What will you choose now? The world you are in does not require an answer. It just waits, patiently, like an old book whose pages are turned by the wind. Each step forward is not an escape from the past, but a touch of truth that you have not yet lived. You are dead. How does it feel? It is not like it hurts. Not a bright flash. Not cold or dark. Death is absence. The smooth, almost gentle disappearance of what had once seemed eternal: time, haste, fear of losing. Everything you knew is behind you. Everything you feel has ceased to have a name. And everything that lies ahead doesn't require an explanation. You might say, "This is the end." But who even gave you the right to decide where the end is? Perhaps death is just a new form of silence. Or the world's way of asking you a question that you didn't have the courage to answer when you were alive. Who were you? What was real about you? Who did you love? And who is left behind to remember? Death doesn't come for the body. It comes for the essence. It doesn't look at what you have become, but at what you didn't have time to be. And if you still hear a voice, this one, or any other, then you are not finished yet. So, you are still going. Over the bridge. By a thread. Drop by drop of what is left. And if your name is called, if someone holds your hand, if they don't let go, maybe this is love. And if no one calls, and you are left alone, then perhaps this is freedom. Do you think you are still alive? No. You are just responding to other people's memories. You are a trace, a smell, a handprint on the fogged glass. But even that makes sense. Even this is the breath of something more. Sometimes, to be free, you have to stop being someone. You need to dissolve. Become part of the silence. Become the space between words before someone says "Goodbye." It is all over. So, it has all started. And the silence is suddenly palpable, like a rough cloth. The air is softer than before, and duller. Space is not a place, not a form. It is just there. It was as if a long cry had been followed by a dream. Calm, heavy, like serenity. Mia felt neither fear nor anger. Just a strange, viscous expectation, as if the whole world had exhaled and was now waiting. Ed was silent. His face was no longer full of resentment, just the kind of weariness that comes not from running, but from the inner realization that it will not be the same again. Adults look at each other, not knowing how to be honest. The children move forward, not because they know the way, but because they cannot stand still. Time became as sticky as syrup in the sun. It was no longer ticking, no longer backstabbing. It stopped demanding anything. They were just walking. The children's footsteps sounded different. One a little unsteady, as if each step was wondering why he was here; the other harder, more stubborn, with the same tension that remains when anger is already gone, but resentment still holds. And around them, nothing. No walls, no horizon, not even the floor itself. The world seemed to melt into the gloom. In the sky that was not there. It was not empty; rather, it was complete silence. Sometimes it felt as if someone was following them over their shoulder. But when they turned around, they saw nothing. Sometimes the air shivered like water over hot asphalt. But it was not scary. On the contrary, it was comforting. And then, in that slow step, in that incomprehension but acceptance, Mia suddenly realized that she was not afraid. It was strange. Illogical. But that is why it is real. Her fingers involuntarily reached out to Ed, just like when she was a child, when everything was still simple, when any fear could be stifled with a touch. He didn't flinch. He just took her hand in return. After Martin and Adam's words, the silence doesn't scare you. It scares you that you cannot hide in it anymore. Their journey continued. Not because someone ordered it, but because it didn't end. It itself led them forward, like a river that cannot stop in the middle of its course. Even if the water is no longer alive, even if the banks have disappeared. They went through fear, screaming, tears. The bodies seemed light, but they didn't fly. Thoughts that didn't have time to be born. A memory that didn't exist yet. They were in a place that didn't ask for an explanation. And it does not. They didn't know how much time had passed. The world didn't prompt, didn't rush. There were no corners, no horizon, no sky overhead. Just a strange sense of presence, as if reality itself was breathing cautiously nearby, not interfering. The children stopped. They just stopped walking. Not because they arrived. Not because they got lost. It was because there was no point for them to continue anymore. There is nothing around. Not a void. Not darkness. Rather, the lack of form. A place where even memories lose their shape. Where noises fade out of their own accord, and footsteps taken a second ago no longer echo. Mia sat right on top of that "nothing," and her body didn't sink in, didn't tense. It just accepted that it could let go. Ed followed her. He just curled up next to her. And Adam and Dee stood still next to each other. There were no more walls, paths, rooms, or mazes. There was no danger. There were no promises. There was only this silence, timeless, featureless, but surprisingly soft. They did not know how long they sat there. Maybe a minute, maybe forever. And there was nothing left in that strange stillness but the most important thing: their breathing. A warm one. Alive. Fragile. Mia watched. She didn't ask any questions, because in this silence any questions would have been too loud. She just sat there. Just like Ed. Just like those who don't know which way to go next sit. When the paths no longer lead home. Sometimes a person's gaze speaks more than their tongue, more than their heart. It is the only one that is still trying to figure it out. Understand how to accept. How to believe. How to forgive. Adam didn't turn around. His silhouette remained heavy and tired. He could feel their stares, not one or two, but many. Yet he didn't turn around, because he knew those glances were not requests. They contained expectation. Silent, sharp. And so far, nothing had happened. Surreptitiously, however, the magician noticed that Mia was looking at him. Not directly, not point blank. There was no warmth or fury in her gaze. Rather, a careful presence, observation, inspection. As if she was trying to read him with her eyes, to catch him. Not as an invitation, but as a chance. A slight nod, probably imaginary. That was enough. He walked over and took his time sitting down next to her. The movement was almost ceremonial: restrained, precise, respectful. He didn't touch them with a word or gesture. Just happened to be on the same level. Not a mentor. Not guilty. Not a savior. Just an adult with something to lose. Mia didn't look away. But she didn't turn away, either. And that was something. Probably more than he had hoped for. Mia stared at Adam in silence, and her gaze finally broke free of the darkness that remained in her eyes after all that she had experienced. She asked a question that she seemed to have been breathing for a long time.
"You are dead too, are you not?" Her voice was brittle, but it held a firmness. "How did you die?"
Adam slowed his breathing, pulling away from the question for a moment as if trying to find the right words. He was not ready to tell the whole truth. He was not ready to discuss it. The man felt his chest tighten heavily at her question. He knew that every word would be parsed and examined from the inside out. He looked up and met her gaze, but his face was blank, hiding the pain. Instead of answering, he just gritted his teeth, as if trying to stifle something he couldn't say out loud.
"You know…" He managed to get a single word out, followed by another silence and a heavy intake of breath, as if to avoid further explanation. "I cannot say. I cannot."
His voice was low, almost lifeless. He looked down again, trying to find something to distract him from the pain in his chest, the pain of not being able to be honest. Mia seemed to be expecting this reaction. She stared at him intently but said nothing, leaving the silence to hang between them. Ed, who was watching, noticed that Adam was still evading. A few seconds passed. Mia suddenly turned around, rubbed her eyes, and said softly, "I'm sorry. This is all so weird."
Adam didn't answer. He just sat next to them, trying his best to contain his anxiety and his powerlessness. Time seemed to slow down in that place, and silence once again enveloped them all, despite the nagging questions and the tension tightening in each of their chests. Ed felt an unbearable weight building up inside him. He was no longer able to sit in the shadow of silence and avoid the questions hanging in the air, unanswered. With each passing moment, his patience was wearing thin. He cringed, not from fear, but from anger, the same anger that grows when you realize you are playing someone else's game and no one is going to tell you the rules. He turned to Adam, his eyes cold, but there was something more determined in his voice than just anger.
"Why won't you tell us the truth?" Ed said like it was not a question but a statement, calm and quiet. "You are always hiding and evading, lying…"
Ed didn't raise his voice, but his words were as precise as a knife, striking straight to the heart of the matter. He didn't want to play the vague game they were all caught up in anymore. Tired of the silence, he still couldn't contain the storm inside him.
"We are dead, are we not? So why can't you just say what happens next? Why all the secrecy and excuses?" His voice was sharper than he had expected, as if the words were long overdue. "What will happen to us now?"
Adam stilled, his shoulders slumping slightly. He felt every word Ed threw at him like a physical blow. But silence was no answer. He knew that Ed was right, that all that misty veil they were wrapped in was breaking down with every question. But what could he say? What could he say? Ed didn't wait for an answer. He didn't need excuses, didn't need answers that didn't seem to matter anymore. He was just tired. Tired of the fact that no one would talk or explain. Adam paused again, as if weighing each word carefully before speaking. He didn't want to hide the truth anymore, but at the same time, he was not ready to reveal everything at once. He turned to the children, and a certain hidden sadness showed on his face, as if his own inner struggle was just beginning.
"You know, I was a boy like you once, Ed," Adam continued, his voice becoming more even, though a hidden heaviness remained. "I was also a boy who didn't know what death was. I thought that adults were always right, that they always knew what to do. But life taught me that even adults sometimes make mistakes."
He paused again, staring at nothing in front of him. Mia and Ed were silent, but there was something real in their eyes, a question that words could not solve.
"I made a lot of mistakes," his voice cracked a little, and Adam closed his eyes for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. "It is not an excuse, but I tried to do everything I could. At some point, I realized I would never be able to fix everything. And no matter how difficult it is, you have to move forward, no matter what."
Mia nodded softly but did not say anything. Ed still couldn't let go of his anger, but he was not shouting anymore. He just stared at Adam, trying to figure out who the man really was.
"We cannot go back to the world we were in. But this is not the end. Everything we have experienced, everything we feel, is part of something bigger. Even here, in this place where there is no time, we still continue to exist."
He said this with such determination that he felt a heavy weight fall on his heart, as if for the first time he truly realized that he couldn't undo what had happened. But even so, he still hoped that in this shadow, they would be able to find their way. Mia thought for a moment, and Ed continued to stare at Adam, his gaze more penetrating. There was no fury in their eyes like before, but a cold, deep question that troubled them both. Adam was silent for a few moments, his gaze growing increasingly distant. Finally, he sighed, looking around at the empty space.
"Death doesn't ask if you are ready," he said quietly. "It just comes, and everything you loved, everything that was important to you, disappears. It doesn't give you time. We cling to the hope of another chance, another opportunity to fix what's broken, but it never materializes. It simply takes, leaving you utterly alone."
He looked at the children; there was something too clear in their eyes, and it made him keep talking, not knowing how to stop.
"When I realized this, I understood that nothing can be returned. We are all just passengers on this journey. And while you can try to stop, lose your way, or turn back, it doesn't help. Death takes everything, and it never gives anything in return."
He paused, as if giving himself time to process what he had said. A shadow of old memories flickered in his eyes, and he knew that this conversation was no longer just about death. It was a confession he never thought he would make to anyone. And now he was here, with them, together, and death continued to follow him, never letting go.
"You start to realize that living with it is all you can do. The ability to let go and move on, even when all seems lost. But I didn't let go."
He sighed heavily, looking away. It was something he had never wanted to talk about but had now become unavoidable. Mia looked at Adam with a mixture of questions and concern. She paused for a moment, then asked the question that had been nagging at her all along.
"How do you think we died?"
"Who knows," he said, looking at nothing. "I'm not all seeing."
There was no reproach in his voice, no hidden irony. He spoke as if he, too, wished to find the answer but found himself unable. Words couldn't restore their loss, nor could answers alter the past. Ed shifted slightly, a failed attempt to relax, and a brief, self-mocking grin flickered across his face.
"You know, I've been thinking," he said, trying to steer the conversation back. "As strange as it sounds, I never noticed how simple it all was before. They seemed like such small things, but now I see how important they really are."
He paused for a moment, choosing his words, then continued with a faint smile.
"For example, Mia, do you remember how we always used to play at your grandparents' house when we were kids? Trying to build those towers out of sand, and then, of course, they would collapse with the first wind. We would laugh and run around like fools, and the adults would shoo us away, saying we should not do that. We never even listened, did we?"
Ed looked at her, not quite serious, as if thinking aloud.
"Do you remember those long evenings when we sat on the balcony, looked at the stars, and dreamed that when we grew up, we would travel everywhere? It didn't quite work out, did it?"
He smiled a little, but there was a hint of bitterness in it. The boy lowered his head slightly, as if about to continue, but narrowed his eyes again, remembering something else.
"And you know, all of that, all of it feels so far away, like it didn't even happen to us. Remember when we would run to the corner at recess and try to hide from the teachers? Honestly, I thought those were such big problems at the time. Why did the adults worry so much about us being late for class? But now, you see, it doesn't seem to matter at all."
He paused, meeting Mia's gaze again as she watched him closely. There was a certain confusion in his voice, almost hopelessness.
"It's strange to realize what we've lost. I never imagined I'd be without my mom and dad, or even… myself. I never pictured it like this. No returns allowed."
Ed's tone became a little quieter, and it was as if he had discovered another important thought, returning to a lighter, if sad, mood. He paused, his eyes becoming even more hazy, and there was a faint bitterness in his voice.
"I never told my mom and dad how much I love them. Now I never can. I would give anything just to go back and say those words. I'm so sorry I left like that, without a word or a goodbye. They didn't know it would be the last time, either."
Ed took a deep breath, his breathing becoming heavy, almost as if he felt like he was back in the moment when he was actually alive, when everything seemed so simple and straightforward.
"I didn't even say goodbye. Maybe if I had said something — something important — things would have been different. Maybe they would have sensed something was wrong. But I'll never know."
Adam stood up, his movements slow, almost cautious, as if each step might raise a new question, a new weight that he did not want to face. He glanced briefly at the children, who were sitting there absorbed in their own thoughts, and then walked over to Dee, who was also quietly watching the whole thing. He walked over to her without saying a word, but his eyes betrayed his concern. He whispered something in her ear, the words low and barely audible, as if they were just for the two of them, something that couldn't be said out loud. Dee nodded, and her eyes became focused, almost wary. Then Adam looked at the children, trying to convey to them everything that could be conveyed with a glance: silence, calm, and perhaps a hint of something important they needed to understand.
"Stay here," Adam said, his voice low but determined. "We will be right back."
Dee turned around, her face still stern but with a hint of hidden concern in her eyes. She took a few steps toward Adam, and the two of them headed deeper into the dark space, their silhouettes gradually disappearing into the shadows. The children were left alone, their eyes following them involuntarily, but they didn't dare to break the silence. Time seemed to stop, and the world around them became even more inexplicable and unsettling. They remained in silence, absorbed in their thoughts, still filled with unanswered questions. Mia sat with her hands in her lap, staring at nothing, her gaze distant as if she were searching for answers where none existed.
"Ed, do you think," Mia asked, her voice low but filled with concern, "that Mom and Dad already know?"
Ed looked at her, thoughtfully tugging at the edge of his sleeve. He wanted to answer, but his mind was a mess. His thoughts pierced through space like ice needles, and everything seemed so strange. He did not know how to articulate his feelings.
"Probably," he said, choosing his words carefully.
Now they sat in silence, but this time it was not just waiting. It was a moment when each of them was trying to find their place in this new, alien world. Childhood is not just a stage of life; it is life itself, full of invisible wonders that we adults forget. In childhood, we don't think about time or how it flows, because every moment seems like an eternity. Everything that happens feels important and meaningful. Even small joys that adults would overlook are whole events for children. Laughing, running around the yard to catch the wind, hiding from the rain under the roof of a house, feeling the rain patter on the glass, or playing in the sandbox, building castles that felt so real it did not matter that they would soon collapse. That was all life, vivid and real. We so often forget these simple things as we grow up. It seems to us that there is still a whole life ahead, that we will have plenty of time to do everything we want. But reality is not so simple. At some point, we all realize that time is not a vast ocean in which we can swim carelessly. It is sand that quickly slips through our fingers. And no matter what we do, it always slips away. Childhood teaches us to live in the moment, not to plan, not to worry about what will happen tomorrow. We believe that tomorrow will be as bright and full as today. But we never really know which day will be our last. We do not know when it will come. There is so much mundanity in our world that it seems everything will go on as usual. But life is unpredictable. We are all waiting for something. We expect that tomorrow will be better, that this is not the last moment, not the last time we will feel joy, light, or peace. But when it disappears, we realize we were never truly waiting. We just lived without realizing how quickly time passes. And now, here and now, everything seems different. The children would have to realize that this world was not what it had been. They could no longer run outside and play ball. They could no longer hear their mother's voice one last time or see the bright sun greeting them in the morning. Their entire lives had been cut short like a ribbon in an instant. And what now? What do you do when you realize you will not be coming home? That there will be no more of those simple joys that seemed so important? But every moment was important, was it not? We often miss it, trying to reach for something more, forgetting to appreciate every day, every look, every smile. We spend time on empty worries and anxieties, not noticing that all of it is real, alive, now. And then suddenly it is all gone, and we realize we had more than we thought. That we lived better days without noticing them. So why not start appreciating every moment while we still have a chance? Why not stop, feel, and realize? In the end, all we really have is this moment. And it may be our last. But if you learn to live it without thinking about what comes next, you will understand how important every moment that passed truly was. It doesn't matter what awaits us. What matters is what we have lived. A family is not just a group of people bound by blood or contract. Family is those who are with us in the most difficult moments, those who share our joys and sorrows, who walk with us on this strange path called life. These are the ones with whom we go through everything that troubles and excites us, and whose presence makes this world a little more stable and understandable. Each of us once looked at our family with love and gratitude. We didn't think that this day, this minute with our family, might be our last. We didn't think we would ever have to say goodbye, that someday there would be no more hugs, warm words, or familiar gestures. We did not think that life would take away those who were close to us, who supported us. What does it mean to lose your family? Family is not just a home or familiar places and smells. These are the people who gave you meaning, whom you loved, whom you grew accustomed to. Family is not only a source of care but also the witness to your mistakes, your joys, and your pain. These are shared memories intertwined into one continuous tapestry in which we all grow and become who we are. But what happens when it is no longer there? When your family is taken by time or, even more terrifyingly, by life itself? When the loss cannot be returned and nothing can be corrected? It is as if parts of your world have disappeared, and you are left in a void, not knowing how to go on or how to fill the vacuum left by what was once simple and self-evident. Saying goodbye to your family is not just a loss. It is the loss of meaning, the loss of a supportive shoulder, the loss of someone who knew you like no one else, who was ready to understand, who shared all your little victories and defeats. Family is what makes us feel alive. When they leave, you start to feel cold. You start to realize that being alone is scary. And so, even after death has taken your family away, leaving a deep void in your heart, you begin to notice that everything you have experienced, all these moments and conversations, does not disappear. They live in you, in what you remember, in what you have kept, even if it is physically gone. They become part of your heart, part of your soul, part of who you have become. When your family leaves, you are left with this wealth of memories and a void that cannot be filled. It forces you to reconsider everything you thought about life, about yourself, about what is important, and what legacy you wish to leave behind. After all, family is not just those who are with you. Family is the ones you carry in your memory, in your actions, in your decisions. These are the ones who will stay with you when everything else is gone. And even if you can no longer hold them or tell them that you love them, their love lives on in you. It doesn't disappear. It is always there; it is just in your heart now. But that doesn't make the loss any easier. It is probably because we all know this moment is inevitable that we are so afraid of losing the ones we love. We lose them, but they stay with us, do they not? Remember this when things get tough. Remember that your time with them is the most valuable thing you have ever had. And as long as they live in your memory, they never truly leave you. Yes, we have this loss. But there is also something more: this memory, this attachment, this love that remains in us despite everything. When we lose, we do not always realize how much it breaks us. Losses not only take people away from us but also affect how we perceive the world. We begin to feel that everything is a chain of blows, a continuous sequence we cannot keep up with, and each new blow is stronger than the last.
At first, we worry, try to hold on, and find the strength within ourselves to move on. But with each new loss, with each new blow, we become more fragile, and this fragility turns into a void inside. The people we have lost don't just leave us physically. They leave us with empty spaces that will never be filled. We may try to return to normal life, to think that everything is already over, but it is not. These voids begin to grow, filling our soul with shadow, and one day, unable to bear it, the shadow consumes us. It gets harder to lose each time. With each new "goodbye," something inside us breaks down. We become unable to trust because we already know too well what it is like to lose. And if loss is something that gradually destroys, then madness is its consequence. We begin to lose touch with reality, lose the ability to perceive the world as it is, because all we see is a fog created by our own destruction. A person breaks down for a reason. They shatter when they do not have time to recover from one loss before facing another. We don't have time to forget, to grieve, to move on, and it all accumulates, one layer upon another. At some point, this burden becomes unbearable. We no longer know where our strength ends and our helplessness begins. We try to hold on, but perhaps we cannot anymore. The inner world begins to disintegrate. We can no longer distinguish between truth and fiction. We see familiar people but cannot recognize them; we hear voices but cannot tell who they belong to. The state feels familiar, but it is alien. We seem to be standing on the edge, and each new step is another attempt to restore what can no longer be returned. We are moving, but it is not the same path as before. How hard it is to be alive when your soul is divided into pieces, and each new step in life reminds you that you will still lose something you hold dear. You can no longer believe in simple things because your reality has become something else. This is not a world where everything is possible. This is a world where everything we love goes away, and we are left with pieces of ourselves that can never be whole again. And so you sit, surrounded by a fog of loss, and you start to think that you may never have been whole. Maybe all of us are just broken people, each carrying their own pain, their own burden, and their own emptiness. We have all been through so much that at some point we cannot tell where our pain ends and who we truly are begins. We have lost everything. And maybe it was too much. But once, everything was easier. Now all these broken things, these unbearable losses, these scars, they have become a part of us. And every new day, every new moment, is an attempt to figure out who you are when the world is not what it used to be, and when no one promises that it will ever get easier. From a silent gray void that had no beginning and no end, as if from a light haze, Diana returned. Adam was not there, which was a little unsettling. The space around her seemed to contract and flatten at the same time, acknowledging her presence. Her figure was clear and confident, but it was as if woven from the same fine fabric as this place, weightless yet meaningful. She didn't try to speak, didn't call them by name, didn't reach out. She simply held out her hand: a quiet invitation to somewhere. Mia looked up first. Her gaze flickered over Diana, over her outstretched hand, over a point in space where nothing had been before, and now it was as if a path had begun, invisible but tangible. This path was not paved with stones, light, or shadows. It just was. It was indescribable. It swirled like the breath of a dream, like a memory about to disappear if you try to hold it. Diana didn't demand; she offered. Without pressure, without reproach. There was no drama in her gesture. Only warmth. Just a hint. Mia stood up. She stared at Dee's face for a long time, at the soft, fragile confidence she exuded, and took a step forward. Ed lingered. He turned again, not in hope, not in fear, but as one looks back at the corner of their own room before leaving, realizing there will be no turning back. But that corner was not there before. He followed without asking his sister or Diana where they were going. Their footsteps were silent. They just happened. The space shuddered a little, as if waiting. Diana turned to them for a moment, nodded, and the three of them started walking. No more resisting. Without asking for an explanation. Questions, fears, and memories were still bubbling inside them, but the path knew how to lull even the noisiest heart to sleep. The place where they walked was indescribable, neither light nor dark, neither warm nor cold. It had no shape, and yet it felt very much alive, even in its silence. There was that stillness that comes between the last word and the first breath. They walked. And the silence walked alongside them. And behind it, trailing like a train, was mystery. They stopped. Without words, without a reason, just as one stops at something important even without fully understanding it. The space had not changed; it still had no shape, it still held both emptiness and possibility. Only Diana, moving quietly forward, reached out and touched that invisible wall as if she knew where its edge was. At that moment, the void shuddered. With a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, she ran her finger through the air, and like a curtain on a stage, an invisible edge parted. Something opened up inside. Light. Noise. Colors. A real stage, an arena again. A real circus. It was alive. The soft light scattered across the rows of seats, filling them with golden dust motes. Music floated through the air, merry and a little old, like a music box long forgotten in an attic. Somewhere, loud voices called out, and the smell of caramel and popcorn tickled their nostrils. Ribbons and toys hung in disarray, and a forgotten bouncy ball bounced down the steps. Everything was painfully familiar, as if drawn from a memory made of joy, surprise, and the warm fatigue of a long day. And everything was strangely whole, genuine, real. Diana stepped inside first, glancing over her shoulder. Without words, but with that special look that speaks of safety. She motioned for the children to pass, then disappeared backstage. Her silhouette dissolved into the folds of the fabric, leaving behind a faint scent of lavender and mystery. Ed and Mia stood at the entrance, not moving, not saying a word. They looked inside to where everything was alive, but they were in no hurry. It was like walking into a warm house after a long winter: first, you have to get used to the light. And the circus waited. The soft seats, a little dusty but comfortable, seemed to call them by name. The music played patiently. And somewhere in the back of the stage, something important was hidden. But not now. For now, it was just quiet, warm, a place where they could simply be. The lights dimmed as if someone had turned off the sun, and the soft glow of the stage was swallowed by darkness like a curtain. A blinding spotlight flashed in the center of the arena, cutting into the blackness like a golden cone of light. Everything around it disappeared, leaving only this single point as if the scene was suspended between a dream and reality. And then, like a thunderclap, a voice rang out: clear, strong, confident, and hoarse, as if it came from everywhere at once.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the circus show!"
The voice rolled through the air, shaking walls that were not there. It vibrated in their chests, echoed in their feet, and stirred the air. With it, everything moved: the rustle of the curtain, the clank of invisible machinery, the crinkle of candy wrappers, as if the entire space behind the scenes was brought to life by the sound itself. They were surrounded by the same magic that happens before a performance begins, when the heart stops for a beat and anticipation is born. Only now, it was not just a circus. It was more. It was something that already knew their names. The voice, at first solemn, now became almost intimate, as if it were speaking not to an audience, but directly to the heart.
"Today's performance is dedicated not just to the audience. It is for one very brave young man. For a boy who once dreamed of being older, stronger, freer. For a boy named Ed." His breath caught. The voice trailed off for a moment, as if gathering thought, and then, in a tone so soft it was almost paternal, it said, "Happy birthday, Ed."
The three words sounded like the final chord of a symphony, not a farewell, but a magical one, like the whisper of a world that remembers. The air rippled around them, as if the day itself was bowing to the birthday boy. Light paper ribbons began to descend slowly from the ceiling, swirling like snowflakes, and each one seemed to contain something: a bright memory, an unspoken word, a child's laughter. The orchestra, as if awakened, began to play a little louder. The sound became lively, filled with the rhythm of a carnival. Clowns, acrobats, and jugglers emerged from the darkness, not hurriedly or loudly, but cautiously, as if checking to see if there was still cause for joy. And all of it, the music, the lights, the movement, happened not out of necessity, but because someone wanted to create a beautiful moment infused with tenderness, forgiveness, and memory. And in that moment, everything seemed possible. Even happiness, here in the midst of silence. Then, a flash of light. The spotlight shifted its angle and froze on an empty spot near the front row, as if calling the birthday boy to his place of honor. Around the perimeter of the hall, or perhaps the illusory space that now felt like a real circus, small lights flickered on like someone striking lighters in the dark. One by one, they burst into flame, until suddenly they looked like candles on a massive cake floating in the air. Music arose from all sides, a whisper like ringing, fragile as the first notes from a music box. And gradually it grew, as if life itself was spreading across the arena. The air smelled of cotton candy and caramel, that strange, childish delight which cannot be explained but is instantly recognized. The voice continued, now with a slight smile.
"Let today's show remind you that miracles happen even when you have stopped waiting for them. Let this be your last gift, but not a sad one."
In this world, in this place that felt like a dream or perhaps the truth, Ed sat up, unsure how to react. But everything in the room, the light, the sound, even the air, seemed to bow before him. Not in grief, but in respect. In love. In recognition. Today was his day. His eyes widened, reflecting the floodlights and falling ribbons, as if a new, unrecognized feeling had been ignited within them. He didn't smile or cry, he only stared. It was like seeing for the first time something worth watching in silence. He looked up, watching as one of the ribbons landed softly on his palm. It was warm from the light and smelled of something familiar, maybe cotton candy, or perhaps those evenings when his mom put a cake on the table and his dad clapped him on the shoulder. His chest tightened, but not painfully; it was more a pang of gratitude. He took a slow breath, clenched the ribbon tightly in his fist, and dropped his hands to his knees. There were no words needed. He just let himself feel. He let the longing linger inside. Even if there was no road home ahead, now, in this strange, impossible, glittering place, he was not alone. And this evening was his. The lights above the arena went out. Darkness fell, thick and almost material, like the breath before a storm. Only the children's hearts beat a dull rhythm of waiting, and the silence deepened until it was broken by a single, thin beam of a spotlight. It caught Adam standing at the center of the stage. His black tailcoat shone; his top hat cast a long shadow; and his eyes, despite the distance, were visible: bright, attentive, full of something ancient and deep. Adam stood like a stone, motionless and restless at the same time. He and Diana were one, like two poles separated by the emptiness surrounding them. Adam slowly lowered his hands, his eyes flashing with something more than a magician's skill. He was more than an actor, more than a person. He was someone who could turn the unseen into reality, one who dances on the edge of the impossible. Diana, in contrast, looked ethereal in her lightness. She made none of the movements that usually accompany magic tricks. She simply stood there, a guide to something unknown, the living embodiment of the most nebulous magic. Her gaze was fixed on the void, the space they had just created. The silence still reigned, but it was different now. It was not an empty silence. It was a moment when everything froze, making it possible to see things that could not be seen before. Then Adam sighed and motioned for Diana to step toward him, their connection complete once more. She approached, her movements smooth, almost imperceptible, and as soon as she touched his hand, the darkness in the hall was colored by a soft, gentle light. They both began to move slowly across the stage, a continuation of the trick, a continuation of the dance with reality they had begun, only now it was slow, measured, and gentle. The magician suddenly raised his head and looked around the empty, almost sterile hall where the two of them were the focal point. He felt his soul filling with something else, something that couldn't be touched or caught. Diana looked up at him, and in her eyes was not just a spark, but a canvas upon which lived their past, their regrets, and perhaps even their future.
"I can show you something else," Adam said quietly.
He raised his hand, and suddenly slender streams of light began to shoot from his fingers, almost transparent, nearly invisible, but undeniably real. They didn't burn or blind; they simply existed, dancing in the air before vanishing. As these streams of light spread out like molecules, Diana approached a box, opened it, and held it up to the light. As the lid opened, small sparks shot out from inside. But instead of subsiding, they immediately began to bloom like flashes in old photographs, like glimpses of bright moments that once were. Adam stood in the shadow of the spotlight, his body seeming to melt into nothingness as the light disappeared. He froze, and the air in the hall became so thick it felt almost tangible. His heart beat steadily, his breathing was calm, but something in his eyes said he was not the same person as a few minutes before. He spoke, but his voice was barely audible, a whisper carried away into the stillness of the night. At that moment, as if on cue, Dee took a step forward. With her movement, everything seemed to slow down, transitioning smoothly from heavy silence to an unexpected new turn. She did not say or do anything unnecessary. Only her eyes, full of a bright calm, and her gesture of opening her palms became an invitation. This was not magic; it was the very essence of her presence: ease and silence in one. Adam stepped aside as if passing the baton, his figure fading into the background until it became part of the night. It was as if he had vanished, leaving Diana at the center of the light. She stood motionless, but just as the air around her filled with silence, the atmosphere itself began to change. From somewhere, like an invisible gust of wind, a lightness entered, as if the air itself had become denser, yet not threatening. The girl raised her hand, and at that moment the space seemed to stretch, giving her figure an air of infinity. A spark of light flickered in her fingers, not bright, but incredibly alive. Something subtle began to appear in the air: sparks of light, but unlike Adam's. These carried joy and lightness, as if reminding them of what once was: small flashes of childhood, laughter, tenderness. They began to gather into a vortex, growing stronger with each moment, creating a mesmerizing swirl. In this whirlwind of glowing lights, Diana became the center. She didn't move or try to attract attention; she simply was. Her whole figure was full of a harmony that was hers alone, unlike Adam, who was a magician of stunning effects. As she closed her eyes, small black feathers began to appear around her as if by magic. They were light, like birds that brush the ground but cannot be caught. The swirl intensified, and the feathers began to circle her, dancing slowly in the air as if following her invisible movements. The light thickened again, and the space around Dee grew more voluminous and hazy, as if the atmosphere itself was transforming. The sparks lingering in the air began to slowly dissipate, but everyone watching felt they left a trail behind them, like stars in the sky that remain visible long after their light has gone. Silence filled the space, but it was not frightening. It was mystical, absorbing and inviting contemplation. Diana stood at the center of the stage, her face calm, her eyes like two bright lights gazing into the distance, filled with something unspeakable: a quiet strength, tenderness, and confidence. The lightness of her movements left no room for unnecessary words, and her presence seemed to become part of this silence, its very essence. When she opened her hands, everything seemed to stand still, waiting. The light, barely perceptible, played in her palms, creating a halo around her: invisible, yet palpable, like the ancient magic inherent in every look and gesture. The feathers swirling around her were strange. They were not just feathers; they were threads of light, thin as cloth, almost invisible. They seemed to come and go as if reality itself bent to her will. They spun, creating a vortex, but not a destructive one. On the contrary, everything caught in this vortex became soft and relaxed, as if every movement in the air brought only peace. Diana didn't move; she didn't try to control what was happening. Her movements were so smooth and natural it was as if she had become part of this space, disappearing into it and leaving only glowing traces behind. The vortex around her gradually intensified, and at some point, it took shape. The form was not clear or defined, like a cloud that changes without following rules. It was simply what was needed at that moment. It was impossible to tell what it was: magic? An illusion? Or merely a manifestation of her inner strength finding its form in this strange world? And as the whirlwind reached its climax, Diana closed her eyes, her face filled with peace. In her chest, it seemed, not only her own heart was beating, but the whole world beat with it. She raised her hands, and the feathers, as if commanded, began to form a gentle flow, heading toward one point. They did not fall or disappear; they simply vanished into thin air, leaving behind a feeling that something important had been completed. They were gone, but they hadn't passed away; they had become part of something greater, and Diana herself had become a part of it. The children didn't know what to think. Their eyes were filled with surprise and admiration, yet they couldn't decipher what they had seen. There were no words to explain it, and none were needed. Diana retreated into the darkness, leaving only a trail of light that faded as silently as it had come. The stage lights slowly dimmed, and soon there was only shadow where her figure had been, but it left a trace in the air, in their feelings, in things that cannot be expressed in words. A melody, barely audible but heart piercing, filled the space. The music was not just sounds; it was breathing. Light as a breeze, it lifted every breath, every movement in the air, making it part of this moment. The floodlights found Adam again, his eyes focused, waiting. Diana, in a new suit as light as her movements, stepped onto the stage. Her dress was almost weightless, like a cloud, and the light playing on the fabric gave the impression she was disappearing into thin air. Her gaze met Adam's, and in it was something more than just partnership. The music, like a breath of wind, gently enveloped the space, penetrating every cell of the body, making it vibrate in time with its rhythm. Adam held out his hand, and Diana took it with a small but deliberate movement. Their bodies yielded to this light, almost airy dance. There was something intimate and fragile in every motion. They didn't strive for perfection or try to show something supernatural. Adam felt her presence as he never had before: her breath, her lightness, her strength. Diana, in turn, felt her body merge with his until they became inseparable. There was something incredibly soothing and touching in this harmony. The dance continued, and the world around them disappeared. It was lost in their movements, in every turn, in every note. And in that moment, there was something about their connection that made one forget everything: all the experiences, the losses, the bitterness. There was only the dance, their dance. Just them, just the music, and everything around was filled with this magical moment, full of lightness and, at the same time, depth. The children sat with bated breath, as if they had entered the very core of a dream, where everything unnecessary: worries, fears, pain, recedes. Mia's eyes were shining, something they had not done in a long time, and her lips parted in a small smile. She watched the dance not as a performance, but as something personal and real: a magical reflection of what she did not yet fully understand, but intuitively felt with all her heart. Inside, she felt warm and calm, as if someone had gently embraced her soul. Ed felt an amazing sense of peace. His hands were folded in his lap, and there was something soft and almost imperceptible at the corners of his eyes. He was smiling broadly, that rare moment when a child's heart is at rest, when one can simply look and feel. He was mesmerized, as if for the first time he was seeing something genuine and not fake. They were both silent. Not because they didn't know what to say, but because everything was said without words. Everything the adults had tried to convey through this dance: trust, care, lost tenderness, had reached them. And as the music completed its circle, as the couple's movements slowed into silence, Mia and Ed still didn't look away. The world hadn't disappeared; it had just become kinder. Just for a little while. But sometimes even a moment is infinite if it is filled with light. A bright light hit the auditorium like a flash of midday sun, instantly erasing the remnants of the dance from the dimness, but not from memory. Adam and Dee stood breathlessly at the edge of the stage, leaning forward in a perfect bow like two porcelain figures, fragile yet majestic, shining in the spotlight. Their hands were linked; their faces were calm, but that calm held a sense of expectation. Not demanding or greedy, but full of hidden hope. The answer was silence. And then, a slight movement. Mia slowly raised her hands and began to clap. Timidly. But the gesture was full of sincerity. Ed joined in, more confident, noisier. A moment later, the children's delight exploded into a burst of applause so real the stage seemed to fill with light from within. Not electric light, but human light. They clapped for more than magic tricks and dancing. They applauded for the beauty, for the effort, for the attempt to give them hope when all seemed lost. Mia clapped without taking her eyes off Adam, not with wariness anymore, but with that quiet respect that comes from watching someone try to be better. Ed pounded his palms together as if beating a winning rhythm. He did not think about death or the past. This was just the moment. And it was beautiful. The stage breathed with them. They didn't hold back. As soon as the bows were over and the floodlights brightened, the children sprang from their seats, light as the wind, quick as sparks. Mia was the first to reach Diana, looking at her new costume with delight: the silk, the sparkling details, everything seemed magical, like a fairy tale book come to life before her eyes. Every image of Diana during the performance had impressed her, but this one was special. It was as if Diana was more than just an artist. "You're incredible," the child would have said quietly, if it had been necessary. But Mia didn't speak. She just stared, her eyes wide, full of light and gratitude. Ed paused for a moment. He stood a little to one side, as if gathering his courage. Then, slowly, almost solemnly, he approached Adam. Their eyes met. Ed's face was no longer tense. There were no pricks of suspicion, no fear. Only a warmth that was a little sad, but held a softness beyond his years. The magician finally made up his mind. Too much had been said, and too much had gone unsaid for too long. He dropped to one knee so that he was on Ed's level, and keeping his voice simple, without pathos but filled with sincerity, he whispered:
"Am I forgiven?"
Ed crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the side, as if considering the weight of the question. A grin crossed his face, neither malicious nor sarcastic. On the contrary, it was almost warm, like someone who knows the power is now in his hands but has no intention of abusing it.
"No," he said shortly.
But there was no hostility in that "no." It sounded soft, as if it contained a different meaning. Not "never," but rather "we'll see." Adam raised his eyebrows at the intonation. He didn't press the point. He didn't ask any further questions. He just nodded softly, like a man who understood that answer was enough for now. The light under the dome was slowly fading, leaving behind a glimmer like stars that hadn't yet disappeared from the sky. Adam, Diana, Ed, and Mia, still surrounded by the warmth of the performance, crossed the arena. The lights went out behind them, the music stopped, the sweet smell of caramel faded into the silence, and together they disappeared backstage. Mia glanced back softly, and for a moment the curtain seemed to sway slightly behind them, like a breath. Ed walked beside her, calm now, as if something inside him had finally let go. But Diana was in no hurry. She stayed a little behind, lingering in the shadows. Her eyes moved over the children, over Adam, as if searching for something important. A small smile appeared on her face, one that radiated both joy and sadness at the same time, as if something profound was turning in her mind.
Avery (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 25 Aug 2025 03:55PM UTC
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evezo on Chapter 1 Mon 08 Sep 2025 11:14PM UTC
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Amelielee on Chapter 1 Tue 09 Sep 2025 08:23AM UTC
Last Edited Tue 09 Sep 2025 08:23AM UTC
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evezo on Chapter 1 Tue 09 Sep 2025 08:25AM UTC
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