Pierrot⁴

He was known as Pierrot, a name that was whispered more than spoken.
A man who smiled as if it took an effort on his part.
They met on a quiet afternoon, when the city lights were fading into golden hues and the air smelled of rain. She didn't know who he was then; only that he bowed slightly when he greeted her, as if she were a royal lady he had been waiting for.
"My lady," he said, in a voice that was at once deep, playful, and sincere.
She laughed. He never forgot that sound.
Pierrot had lived a life of shadows: smiles behind a mask, furtive glances, promises he never allowed himself to keep. Love was dangerous. Love made you vulnerable. That's what he told himself... until she appeared.
With her, he became more tender.
With her, he talked about dreams instead of escape routes.
With her, he took off his mask... even if only a little.
He flirted as if it were an art. He would approach, whispering words meant only for her ears; always halfway between a joke and an underlying seriousness.
"If the world were cruel to you, my lady," he once said, "I would teach you good manners."
But stories like hers never retain their sweetness for long.
One night, he disappeared: without goodbyes, leaving only the echo of his voice and the memory of his smile. Not because he had stopped loving her... but because he loved her too much to allow his own darkness to touch her light.
Even so, sometimes, when the night is calm enough, she swears she hears him...
A soft laugh.
A familiar voice.
—Did you miss me, my lady?