When Livia opened her eyes, the world was velvet red. A spotlight burned above her. Warm. Unforgiving. The stage beneath her feet creaked with every breath. In her hands—flowers. Wilted. Bloodstained. A voice echoed through the tent.

“Ladies and gentlemen... our darling has arrived!”

Laughter erupted—though she saw no one. Just silhouettes. Rows and rows of grinning mouths in the dark. The clown stood at the edge of the stage, arms outstretched. He bowed. She didn’t.

“Perform,” he whispered, lips curling.
“Or the show ends. And so do you.”

She didn’t know what she was supposed to do.
Dance? Sing? Beg?
Her body didn’t listen. Her legs moved like marionettes pulled by unseen strings. Her lips curled into a smile that wasn’t hers.

The audience howled with delight. Behind her, curtains rose.

Scenes flickered—like memories projected in shadowplay:
A child crying alone.
A woman burning letters.
A man bleeding beneath a translator’s desk.

“It’s your life, dear Livia,” the clown grinned.
“The parts they didn’t let you forget.”

Then came the mirrors. Dozens of them. Surrounding her. Each reflected a different version of herself:

Livia the Dancer.
Livia the Mad.
Livia the Clown.

She screamed. They laughed.

“Smile wider.”
“Paint your lips.”
“Show them your soul.”

She dropped the flowers. They burst into flame. And the spotlight turned red. Just before the stage crumbled beneath her, just before the curtains began to close, the clown leaned in once more—

“The circus chose you, Livia.”
“You were always meant to join the show.”

And this time… a small, broken part of her believed it. She didn’t fall. The stage breathed beneath her feet. Warped. Shifted. Transformed.

Suddenly, she was no longer on a stage—
She stood inside a crumbling replica of her childhood home.
But everything was wrong. Slightly off. Like a painting done from memory. The walls pulsed with laughter. The shadows danced in rhythm to her heartbeat.

“Memory is such a fragile thing, don’t you think?”

The clown sat at her dining table. Pouring tea into an empty cup. There was no kettle.

“Do sit. You’re the guest of honor.”

She stayed standing. Barefoot. Confused. Cold.

“Why are you doing this?” her voice cracked.

The clown tilted his head.

“Because you came. Because you heard the laughter.
And no one hears it unless they’re meant to.”

In the next room, a phonograph played. But the record was warped—playing her voice back at her. Crying. Pleading. Screaming....

She clutched her head. The laughter bled into her skull.

“I’m not crazy!” She shouted.

The clown smiled gently.

“Not yet.”

A mirror slid down from the ceiling. It showed her in full clown paint. Red lips. Wide eyes. White face.
The makeup was perfect. Except… She hadn’t put it on.

The reflection laughed. Then screamed.

And in that distorted glass, she saw something behind her. Long limbs. Twisted grin. Not the clown—Something worse. She turned around. There was nothing.

But the mirror still showed it.

“What do you want from me?”
she asked the clown, trembling.

He stood. Walked closer. His footsteps echoed like drumbeats.

“Not from you, dear Livia.
But with you.”

His breath smelled like ash and cinnamon.

“You’ll be perfect. You just need…
a little push.”

And with that, he pressed his fingers to her temple. A flicker of white. A scream swallowed by silence. Darkness again...