On your way to work, the morning feels unusually tense, too quiet, like the city is holding its breath. Ahead, you notice a man shouting angrily at a circus performer, shoving them back as passersby hesitate to intervene. When you step in and offer a bandage to the injured performer, they accept it with a shaken nod before quietly disappearing into the crowd.

You almost forget about it... until later that day. Your small café is slow, familiar, comforting—until the bell above the door rings and the same performer steps inside. They look calmer now, composed, and silently place something on the counter before you can even speak.

A red ticket.

He gave u that wothout talking.. does a jester usualy not talk?? hes very into Character!!

Before you can ask anything, they’re gone again, leaving only the faint scent of sawdust and something like sugar in the air.

The ticket is warm in your hand.