The sun dipped low behind the trees as I pushed open the creaking gate, the Withered Remnants fence groaning under my hand like it remembered me. I hadn’t been here in years—not since I was a wild little kid with grass-stained knees, running through Grandpa’s backyard circus like I owned the place.
But even after all this time, nothing had changed. The air still smelled of rust, wildflowers, and a strange sweetness—like spun sugar and old dreams.
And there it was.
The DRD organ wagon stood proudly near the path and Hisa’s parkside trees, its brass pipes catching the last light of day. A soft mechanical breath escaped it—and suddenly, like magic, the tune began: a sleepy, nostalgic waltz that pulled me right back to my childhood.
Beyond it, the DRD circus wagon with its peeling paint and gold-trimmed name—ZANTOR’S MARVELS—sat like a sleeping beast, waiting to wake. Velvet curtains fluttered inside, their faded color somehow still proud.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” came a voice, deep and familiar.
There was Grandpa—tall, wiry, in his old ringmaster’s coat, top hat tipped slightly to the side. His eyes twinkled under thick brows.
“You think I could stay away from this place?” I said, stepping into his hug.
He chuckled and gestured down the path. The DRD welcome sign flickered on above us—Welcome to the Spectacle!—casting warm gold light over the overgrown grass.
We wandered past the DRD high striker game, where I took a swing for old times’ sake and rang the bell. Grandpa whooped and clapped like I’d just won a medal.
Just beyond the games, the backyard opened up into a cozy corner of calm: the CHEZ MOI Jackson Picnic Table sat under a maple tree, its surface covered in lanterns, half-melted candles, and a tin tray with two chipped mugs of warm cider.
“Thought we’d catch up properly,” Grandpa said, motioning me to sit.
We talked there as the sky dimmed, the DRD air balloon swaying gently behind us like it wanted to drift off into the stars. To the side, the CHEZ MOI Hardin Patio Bistro Set sat tucked near the fence—his quiet reading spot, he said. A place for morning coffee and old circus journals.
“You still throw?” I asked, nodding toward the DRD knife throwing act.
He grinned. “Watch and learn, kid.”
Thwack. Bullseye. Just like always.
As the night deepened, the organ played on, the circus wagons glowed faintly, and everything shimmered in a way that made you feel like the world had paused—like real life was just something that happened somewhere else.
“You’ll take care of it someday,” Grandpa said suddenly, his voice quieter now. “The magic. The memory. It’s yours when you’re ready.”
I looked around—at the lights, the wagons, the games, and the little corners of warmth he’d carved into the wildness. I nodded.
Not because I had to.
Because I wanted to.