Jack had become one of them.
A week passed. Then two. By the third, his place in the circus was no longer questioned. He wasn't the new
boy anymore. He was Jack—the one who could shimmy up a support pole faster than most, who could
balance a tray of mugs during rain, who listened well and spoke little.
Helena kept working him harder. By now, he could vault cleanly, swing to the first crossbeam, and land
without tumbling like a sack of potatoes. He wasn't graceful yet, but he was learning.
Rosy still teased him—endlessly—but now there was a rhythm to it. When she tossed him rope, he caught it
one-handed. When she insulted his posture, he corrected it with a smirk. At night, they sat by the fire
together, not always speaking. Jack had never been comfortable with quiet that wasn't sad. Until now.
One evening, as they prepared for another show, Morrow pulled Jack aside.
"You've got timing," he said, running a thumb across his silver pocket watch. "Maybe not stage timing, but
backstage—setup, teardown, spot rigging—you feel the beat of the thing. That's rare."
Jack shrugged. "It makes sense to me."
Morrow tapped the side of his head. "That's the trick. If you feel the rhythm, you can stay in it. Lose the
beat…" he let the sentence hang, "...and it drops you."
That night's performance went smoothly. The fire dancers earned roars. The strongman lifted a barrel with
two children clinging to it. The bearded chicken-diviner cackled at her own jokes.
But during cleanup, something happened.
A man appeared at the edge of the tents.
Not unusual. Visitors lingered often after the show, hoping for a chance to speak with performers. But this
one was different. He wasn't smiling. He didn't clap. He just stood.
Still.
His coat was too long, the wrong shape for the weather—gray with threadbare patches at the seams. He
had no luggage, no walking stick, no smile. And most of all, he had no shadow.
Jack blinked.
Then the shadow was there. Slight. Flickering. Like it had caught up to him late.
Rosy noticed him too. She leaned toward Jack and whispered, "You see that fellow?"
Jack nodded.
"Weird walk," she muttered.
And it was. The man moved like he was on strings, each step precise but out of sync, as if he were
mimicking human motion. He passed through the camp without speaking to anyone, looking only once—at
Jack.
Their eyes met. A flash of something. Recognition?
Then the man vanished around the canvas wagons and was gone.
Jack searched for him, even slipped past the boundary ropes and walked the perimeter. Nothing. No
footprints in the mud. No scent of tobacco or boot prints where they should have been.
The next day, he asked Morrow about it.
The ringmaster scratched his chin.
"Tall fellow in a gray coat?" he asked.
Jack nodded.
"Odd eyes, like he's waiting for something?"
"Yes."
Morrow squinted. "Could've been a scout. Some towns send them early. But…" he trailed off. "No. He didn't
come to the fire. Didn't speak to anyone. People like that usually leave a coin. Or a curse."
Rosy, listening from the wagon steps, laughed nervously. "Don't say that."
"It's just an old saying," Morrow muttered. "Still…"
He looked at Jack again, longer this time.
"If you see him again, don't follow. There are stories. Old roads that loop when they shouldn't."
Jack said nothing. But the man's stare lingered in his thoughts like a bruise behind the eyes.
That night, Eluna returned.
He found her sitting near the back fence of the camp, legs dangling over the edge, eyes on the horizon.
"You saw it too," he said.
She didn't answer.
"He looked at me like he knew me."
"He doesn't," she said softly. "But something else might."
Jack sat beside her.
"Is it starting?" he asked.
Eluna turned to him, her voice almost lost in the wind.
"No. It's remembering."