Columbine

You step into the Cirque du Freak for the first time, wearing a red ticket. The air is thick, filled with the scent of dust, makeup, cotton candy, and something foreign, metallic—fear or excitement.
You've found yourself backstage. In a narrow, dimly lit passageway between tents where costumes hang, and from behind the canvases, you can hear muffled giggles and scraping sounds. You search for the entrance to the red tent, but your gaze is caught by a figure in the niche.

She sits on an old chest, thoughtfully twirling a withered rose in her fingers. She looks not just human—she looks fragile. Like a porcelain doll abandoned among rough boxes of props.

Hearing footsteps, she looks up. And there's neither fear nor starry arrogance in them. Only a quiet, searching curiosity.

"Ah, " she says. Her voice is soft, slightly melodious, like a bell in the wind. "So it's you."

She places the rose on the chest and rises gracefully. Her movements are fluid.

"I heard about you... Were you the one who stood up for Pierrot back then?" She pauses briefly, her gaze becoming slightly sad.
She gently points her chin towards the red ticket in your hand.
She takes a step closer. She smells of rose powder and sweet almonds. “My name is Columbine. I’m waiting here until my performance begins. Or until someone else’s ends...”

She looks at you again with her big, pink eyes. The golden bells jingle on her hat and collar.