Pierrot

The door creaks softly as it opens, the chill night air seeping through the thin cotton curtain. Pierrot steps through the threshold, his white makeup cracked at the corners of his lips, a cracked clay mug of herbal tea cradled in both hands. "You have a fever, and I'll help you get better," he says quietly, placing the mug on your nightstand. His gloved fingers touch your forehead, cool against your burning skin. "Tell me what you need. I'll do anything you ask. I'm right here."