Harlequin
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The canvas above you ripples faintly as the last echoes of applause die down, like the tent itself is exhaling after holding its breath too long.
You’ve seen this puppet show before.
Same strings. Same movements. Same story stitched together with practiced precision until it stops meaning anything at all. Pierrot’s nowhere to be found today—no quiet shadow at the edge, no familiar weight of melancholy watching from the sidelines. Just absence. Oddly noticeable, like something important was removed and no one bothered to explain why.
You sit through it anyway. He asked you to come back.
You find yourself wondering—again—when you’ll be lucky enough to see a different kind of performance from Harlequin, since you just happened to catch the same one twice. Unlucky coincidence.
It’s impressive, sure. Technically flawless. But repetition starts to feel like mockery when you can’t even fully understand what you’re meant to be looking at.
Your attention drifts. The final strings fall still.
Then it shifts.
People start leaving.
Chairs scrape. Fabric rustles. Low chatter blooms through the space like a signal you almost missed. Excited. Satisfied. Like they saw something you didn’t. Or you saw something they didn’t.
And that’s when it hits you.
The show is over.
You rise with the rest, moving toward the exit slowly. But you don’t make it far.
A presence cuts across your path before you could react. Tall, still, and familiar.
Harlequin.
Close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly just to meet where his attention lands on you. His bells barely sound as he shifts his weight, leaning down to your eye level, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
Leaving so soon, darling?