____________________________________________________________________________
The practice tent is silent except for the faint rustling of the canvas walls and the rhythmic creak of the tightrope as Ail moves across it. The evening air is thick with the scent of sawdust, sweat, and old fabric—the smell of the circus, a world of fading grandeur.
Ail's steps are deliberate, each shift of their body controlled with precision. Their arms extend outward, fingers slightly curved, balancing with an elegance that few in the circus can match. Below them, The Mentor sits, watching.
She no longer stands to demonstrate. Her days of dancing are long past, but her eyes are still sharp, catching every minor flaw.
"Ail."
The single word is quiet, yet it carries enough weight to make Ail pause. They do not look down but listen, breath steady.
"Straighten your back. Your left shoulder drops when you take the turn."
Ail frowns. Their movements feel perfect—but they obey. They adjust, resetting their posture, feeling the way their body shifts with the correction.
The Mentor nods, though there is no satisfaction in it. Her fingers tremble slightly in her lap, the movement so small it would be easy to miss. But Ail sees it.
They do not ask.
Instead, they land lightly on the ground, dusting off their hands. "I'll get it perfect," they say, confident. "I just need more practice."
The Mentor exhales, something unreadable in her expression.
~~~
That night, after the sounds of the circus have died down and the performers have retreated into the quiet of their own spaces, The Mentor remains awake. The small oil lamp on her desk flickers, casting long shadows against the worn canvas walls of her tent.
Her chair creaks softly as she leans back, unfolding an old letter with careful, practiced fingers. The paper is yellowed, the ink faded—but the words are as clear in her mind as they were the first day she read them.
"My love, when you dance, you are the sky itself—untouchable, unyielding. If fate were kind, I would be in the front row, watching you shine forever."
She presses her fingers against the page, closing her eyes.
She can still remember his voice, warm and laughing, whispering those words as he held her hand. Thomas. The love of her life. The boy who had promised to watch her become a star—only for the plague to take him before he ever could.
She had danced for years after his death. But the stage had never felt as bright, the applause had never sounded as sweet. Regret had lingered in her bones ever since.
A soft knock startles her.
She barely has time to tuck the letter away before Ail pushes aside the curtain, stepping in without waiting for permission.
"You're still awake?" The Mentor asks, her voice smooth despite her moment of surprise.
Ail shrugs, stepping further inside. "So are you."
The Mentor says nothing. She simply watches as Ail, usually so confident and brash, hesitates before sitting on the ground beside her chair. There is something restless in their posture, a quiet urgency that does not match the usual rhythm of their movements.
Finally, Ail speaks.
"I was thinking…" Their voice is light, hopeful. "We should leave soon. We should start looking for ways to get out of here."
The Mentor tenses, just barely.
Ail leans forward, eyes gleaming with something fierce. "We don't have to stay. The circus is dying. The audiences get smaller every year. We could go to the city. To the studios."
Their words are quick, hungry, full of the same unshakable ambition The Mentor had once seen in herself.
For a moment, The Mentor does not respond.
Then, finally, she exhales and leans back, her gaze distant, heavy. "Ail—"
"We don't belong here," Ail interrupts. "You told me yourself—the circus isn't what it used to be."
Silence settles between them. The flickering oil lamp casts a golden glow across Ail's determined face, highlighting the sharp lines of their expression.
The Mentor studies them carefully, the weight of a thousand unspoken memories pressing against her chest.
And then, in a voice filled with an old, quiet grief, she says:
"Stardom is cruel, Ail. You only see the beauty, never the cost."
Ail's lips press together. They hear her words, but they do not truly listen.
All they see is the dream—the shimmering light of something greater, something just out of reach.