Chapter 5
The Boy Without Light
The hollow moves like a slow bruise across the grounds.
I feel it before I see him—an ache under my ribs, a sudden dimming of the air, the way a room feels when someone blows out a candle but the smoke hasn’t curled yet.
The air around Milo is a bruised, lightless grey, pulling the gold and pink from the nearby tents until the colors themselves seem to shiver and fade. The circus notices nothing. But I do.
I stand by the edge of the midway, my empty jar clutched to my chest. He isn't walking so much as drifting, his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the dirt beneath his boots. He looks like a boy, but he feels like a crater.
As he draws closer, the lavender spark I just caught from Madame Lys begins to vibrate violently against the glass. It isn't attraction; it's terror. The spark knows what he is—a void that doesn't just lack light, but actively consumes it.
"Hey!" one of the ticket-takers shouts, waving a hand toward him. "You need a pass for the early show, kid!"
Milo doesn't look up. He doesn't even flinch. He passes through the man’s space, and for a heartbeat, the ticket-taker’s cheerful amber glow simply... vanishes. The man blinks, rubs his eyes, and looks confused, his mouth hanging open as if he’s forgotten what he was about to say.
Milo keeps walking. He is heading straight for the main tent, straight for the heart of the Wonderhouse.
I should stay back. I should go to the Ringmaster and tell him there is a hole in his circus. But my feet are moving before I can stop them. I follow the grey trail he leaves behind, the air growing colder with every step.
He stops at the entrance to the Big Top.
He looks up at the banner, and for the first time, I see his face clearly.
It is pale and sharp, his eyes like glass that has been sanded down by the wind.
He looks at the words ONE NIGHT ONLY, FOREVER and doesn't smile.
He doesn't even look curious. He looks like he is waiting for the world to end.
I step out from the shadows of the ticket booth. "You can't go in there," I say, my voice trembling more than I want it to.
He turns his head slowly. The greyish-white spark I caught last night—the one that felt like loneliness—leaps against the glass of my jar, pressing itself toward him.
"Why not?" he asks. His voice is flat, a sound without an echo.
"Because," I whisper, looking at the bruised air surrounding him. "There's nothing in there for you."
"There's nothing anywhere else, either," he says.
He takes a step toward me, and the hollow place in my chest meets the hollow place in the air.
For a second, the world goes silent. The circus music, the shouting, the sharpening of knives—it all falls away.
There is only the cold, the grey, and the terrifying realization that I am looking at someone who is just as empty as I am.