Chapter 2
The Afterglow
The thing about Joys is this: they never stay where you leave them.
They drift. They cling to corners and rafters and quiet places where people forget to look.
After every show, the air inside the Wonderhouse ring is thick with leftover sparks, like iridescent confetti the world hasn’t figured out how to sweep up.
My job begins when the applause ends.
I slip back into the dressing tent only long enough to peel off my paper hat and set it on the crate.
The jar sits beneath it, the black ribbon curled like a sleeping cat.
I touch the glass once, feeling the faint, rhythmic vibration of the lights trapped inside.
The jar hums under my palm as if it is listening.
“Time to feed you,” I whisper.
I pick up the jar and step back outside.
The tent flap closes with a soft sigh, muffling the distant music.
The crowd has moved on to the next act—the fire-breather is out there now, swallowing flame like candy.
His sparks are bright red and volatile, beautiful but dangerous to touch.
I leave those for the circus to absorb on its own.
Mine are the soft ones. The quiet ones left behind by hearts that glowed only for a moment.
The ring is empty when I return. Lanterns sway above, their honeyed light dulled after the show.
Straw whispers under my toes as I step into the center.
And there they are: gold from warm hands that clap; pink-white from laughter that comes easily; lavender still trembling from a mother who cries into her sleeve.
This part always feels like a prayer—or a betrayal. I try not to think about which.
I untie the black ribbon. The bow loosens with a small sigh of fabric. When I open the jar, the air inside shivers, hungry and expectant.
“Come home,” I breathe.
A gold spark breaks away from the rafters and floats down like a feather. I guide it with one finger, careful not to touch. If I touch it, I will feel the warmth for half a heartbeat, and then I will lose it. Better to pretend the warmth is for the jar, not me.
One by one, the rest follow. Pink-white spirals. Blue drifting ribbons. Lavender trembling clouds. They come willingly, like birds returning to a nest. Some nights I imagine they know me. Some nights I imagine they pity me.
I catch the last of them—one pale, thin spark barely strong enough to hold its shape. It’s a greyish-white I haven’t seen before, too dim to be a laugh or a memory. It feels like loneliness. A half-born spark that didn't believe in itself. I crouch and hold the jar open for it.
“It’s all right,” I tell it softly. “You don’t have to shine to stay.”
When it enters the jar, the others swirl around it protectively. The jar stops shaking and settles into my hands, heavier than before.
“Joy.”
I turn. The Ringmaster stands near the edge of the tent, his top hat crooked, looking tired in a way the audience never sees.
“The afterglow was generous tonight,” he says, nodding to the jar.
“It was soft,” I answer. “Mostly laughter. One weak one.”
He steps closer, his gloved hand brushing my shoulder in a fatherly ghost of a touch. “The world forgets how to glow, darling. That’s why we’re here.” He studies me, his eyes sharp behind a kind smile. “You feel colder.”
I tighten my grip on the glass. “I’m fine.”
Lying to him is easy. Lying to myself is harder. He asks me what I keep for myself in return for what I give the crowd, and my throat closes. He already knows the answer.
I return to the dressing tent and drape a shawl over the crate. The gold glow seeps through the fabric anyway. Sometimes, when the tents sigh, I think I feel a spark brush my ribs from the inside. But it always dies before it forms.
I touch the jar one last time. “Goodnight,” I whisper to the light that isn’t mine.
The afterglow dims. The circus sleeps. And I stay exactly the same.