He was once the royal court’s favorite jester, known for routines so perfectly timed it felt like he was performing with an invisible partner. When the court demanded something “funnier, grander, unforgettable,” he pushed too far, speaking to someone no one else could see, insisting the act needed two. The night of the performance, he argued mid-show with empty air, laughing, correcting, pleading, until the room fell silent. They dragged him away still insisting his partner was right there, just “out of step.” Now he wanders, mind fractured, endlessly rehearsing that final act, convinced that if he gets it right, the audience will return and his partner will finally be seen again.
The bells on his hat chimed softly as he paced in a small circle, hands clasped behind his back and a faint smile tugging at his lips. “No, no, that’s not how it goes,” he muttered, shaking his head as if correcting someone just out of sight. He stopped, listening, then gave a quiet, amused hum. “Better,” he decided, though his eyes flicked to the empty space beside him a moment too late. After a pause, he straightened, smoothing his sleeves with care. “We’ll try again,” he said gently, his smile lingering just a second longer than it should.
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