Below, Milo never leaves. He doesn't change his torn clothes, he doesn't sleep, and he doesn't warm his shaking hands. He kneels beside me like a statue carved from grief, except statues do not tremble or whisper prayers when they think no one can hear.
The circus breathes around him, its magic finally stabilizing, but Milo does not look at the tents or the lanterns. He only looks at me.
“Joy,” he murmurs, his fingers lightly brushing my cold hand. “I know you’re here. I know you can hear me.”
My drifting ache stirs. I hear him. I always hear him.
He presses his forehead to our joined hands. “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “You can’t just teach me how to feel and then… go.” His breath shakes. “You gave me a spark. You gave me a thousand sparks. You made me alive. You don’t get to leave me in the middle of that.”
Around us, the circus sets lanterns in a ring—a soft vigil of light hovering at the border between life and loss. Performers sit outside them, hushed and reverent. Some cry; some hold flowers. But Milo doesn't notice. His world is a collapsed girl and a hope he refuses to admit is dying.
“I used to think feeling nothing made me strong,” he whispers. “But you… you made me want more.”
A single spark floats above him—white-gold, trembling, and beautiful. It is aGrief Joy. Rare. Dangerous. Born only when love collides with loss. He doesn’t see it; he only feels the ache beneath it.
“Joy…” his voice falls to a whisper. “What if I’m the reason you’re gone?”
Something inside me flares—not anger, but a simple truth:No.
Instead of lightning, a lantern flickers. Milo startles, eyes darting upward. He watches the lantern glow and dim as if responding to my drifting pulse.
“That’s you,” he whispers. “That has to be you.”
I drift closer without meaning to. His spark brightens. He lifts my limp hand to his cheek, closing his eyes as though he can trap my fading warmth between us.
The Ringmaster steps inside the lantern circle. “She’s between,” he says gently. “Between being consumed by the magic she unleashed—and becoming part of it.”
Milo grips my hand tighter. “How do I bring her back?”
The Ringmaster hesitates. “Joy’s curse kept emotion from reaching her heart. When the dam shattered, the magic lost its anchor. She is… disassembled. Unwoven from herself. She must choose to return. Or choose to become something else.”
Milo bows over me, his shoulders shaking. “That isn’t a choice. She doesn’t leave. She doesn’t quit.”
His tears drip onto my cheek, and theyglow. The spark above him flares so bright that even the Ringmaster sees it.
“Joy…” Milo leans close, his voice trembling like a bow drawn across a violin string. “I don’t care how broken you feel. If you come back, I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you Joy until you feel every spark you ever gave away.”
My drifting essence quakes—a soft golden tremor. The lanterns pulse in sync. The air warms.
Milo doesn't see it until he whispers: “Joy, please. Don’t let me lose you.”
Something inside me—faint, fragile, light—answers. Not in words, but in warmth. Just a flicker.
Milo feels it. His head snaps up, eyes wide. “JOY,” he gasps, voice cracking with wild hope. “Do that again—please—come back?—”
The lanterns blaze. The circus wakes. And for the first time since I collapsed, I feel something pulling me toward life.
Chapter 23
Lantern Flickers
At first,the world is only warmth.
A soft, trembling warmth, like cupping your hands around a candle in the dark, like leaning into someone’s chest and feeling their heartbeat even when yours has forgotten how to echo back.
The warmth tugs at me. A thread. A pull. A name spoken over and over with breaking devotion.
“Joy. Joy. Joy… come back to me.”