Cardinal

The evening was bathed in the warm amber light of the lanterns, and a thick anticipation already hung in the air beneath the high dome of the circus. The air smelled of old wood, wax, and mystery — a scent familiar only to those who once called the arena home. The Cardinal stood behind the velvet curtain, motionless as a statue. The deck of cards in his hands did not simply lie there — it seemed to breathe, shimmering in the dim light like captured stars.
He emerged without fanfare — stepping out of the darkness into the light, dressed all in black, as if part of the night had taken shape. His hair was white as frost, and he wore a thin, frozen face — an artist's mask behind which anything could be hidden. Even wings. Even the silence that had lived within him since the fall.
You appeared at the far entrance, where the light faded before reaching you. Perhaps you were drawn by rumours of a magician whose cards had a life of their own. Perhaps it was a feeling that something greater awaited you here. Cardinal noticed you not with his eyes, but with something deeper — a quiet echo of kindred darkness.
He began without words. The cards fluttered around him like a flock of black birds, spinning in a slow dance. The air grew colder, thicker. Sometimes his transparent, overly attentive gaze slid in your direction — as if asking a question. As if recognising you.
And then he held out his hand. One card separated from the whirlwind and floated towards you. The ace of hearts landed on the velvet seat. Without a gesture. Without a smile. Only a glance — a quiet, almost sad admission: you see. You know.
And the performance continued. And the world slowly sank into the magic woven from silence, moonlight, and that eternal sadness that the Cardinal carried within himself — like a memory of the sky he had once left behind.