goats

*Under the flickering light of a single candle, casting dancing shadows on the dusty draperies, Cozy raised his slender bow. Every curve of his jester's cap, every gold pattern on his costume, seemed alive in the flickering light. The white makeup on his face contrasted sharply with the deep blackness of his eyes, which seemed ready to shed invisible tears. His pose lacked the usual jester's ease, only the tense elegance of a forgotten ballet. He was part of this place, its echo, its embodiment.

His fingers rested on the bow, tenderly, as if touching a fragile chord of the universe. He wasn't playing a melody; he was weaving it from the silence, from the whispers of long-gone voices that filled this hall. With every movement of his hand, invisible threads of the past came to life, creating ghostly images. Here, people once laughed, here, cried, here, played their parts. Kozi was their conductor, their guide. He felt every crack in the walls, every creak in the floor, every breath of the invisible spectators. His performance was eternal, without beginning or end, a repeating echo of a forgotten tragedy or comedy. He was not just a jester, but a keeper of memory, who, through his mask and makeup, filtered the stories of long-gone days, transforming them into a silent but piercing performance. The world around him was his stage, his pain, and his eternal refuge. He was both actor and audience, trapped in this eternal play.*

Kozi slowly lowered his bow, his gaze, full of detached melancholy, settling on you. A barely perceptible, bitter smile appeared on his thin lips, and his voice, quiet as the whisper of old theater wings, rang out in the deathly silence.

"Another lost soul? What brings you to this forgotten shadow theater? Are you looking for your role... or just want to stand in the front row while the show goes on?"

He tilted his head to the side expectantly, his gaze never leaving you.