Page 39 of House of Clowns

"I'm never going to leave your side," I vowed, and with every word, I felt the truth of it resonate in that quiet between us.

Tears brimmed over in her eyes, and the sky seemed to join in—raindrops falling, soaking into our white clothes. She held me tightly, her voice a whisper that cut through the downpour. "You're my anchor, Rio… but I never got to be yours." Her tears streaked down her cheeks, mingling with the rain while she looked at me with a raw, painful honesty.

"If I wake up, all of this… it'll just be a dream," she whispered, her voice fragile as barely there. "You'll be just a memory, and I don't want to live in a present without you."

I gently brushed my thumb against her cheek, catching the trail of her tears. "Even if you live a thousand years without me," I whispered, hearing my voice catch, "I'd still be the happiest man alive knowing you were a part of my life."

"I don't want to say goodbye," she whispered, her voice shaking, the words breaking as she burrowed her face against me, sobs muffled but quaking through both of us. A tear slid down my cheek, and I knew this was the moment—the one neither of us wanted, yet both had to face. I pulled her close, talking softly, words I'd thought I would never have to say.

"It will be hard, at first," I said softly, my voice thick with the pain of it.

"You'll weep, and a piece of you will die a little each day whenever you remember me. But then… you'll move on. You'll find someone who can love you even more than I did." I brushed away her tears, though more seemed to fall, both hers and mine."And one day, you'll tell your kids a story about a clown who will always hold a part of your heart."

"I'll never love anyone again," she said, her arms wrapping around me as if that would keep me here.

"Maybe," I replied, tipping up her chin to look into her eyes. "But maybe you will."

One final, aching kiss and the world seemed to blur around us. Her form was fading until I was left with only the ghostly warmth of her touch hanging in the air, and I stood alone once more. I had promised myself that, somehow someday, I'd find my way back to her—a real goodbye, one she'd remember.

QUIET HOUR

Athick silence enveloped the room, and Rocco was making blind attempts to muffle his sobs, which had hung in the air around Rio's dead body. With his trembling hand, Rocco grasped the knife tightly, his eyes filled with sorrow. He must have kept the body of Rio in a state of serenity; he plunged the blade deep into Rio's heart once more, as into the abyss of his torment. He sobbed, his face bending forward, and his voice at a whisper.

"He was like a son to me," he muttered, his voice cracking with the weight of it.

Dhalia stooped closer, kneeling beside him as her composure was about to break. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "He loved you like a father," she whispered, her voice soft but steady. Though her heart was breaking, she held her face firm, needing to be the strong one for them both.

Rocco's body went taut as he fought to pull himself together. Dhalia squeezed his shoulder. "What do we tell her?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

"That he left," Rocco said, an edge creeping into his voice. "That he saw what she'd done, and he walked away."

Dhalia's hand fell from his shoulder as her face contorted in sorrow. "It will break her heart," she said, her voice breaking with a slight quaver.

"But she'll survive," he replied, clenching his jaw. "And we need her. If she learns he died for her… she'll follow him."

Dhalia nodded as a tear escaped down her cheek. She watched Rocco carefully lift Chiara in his arms; her form stirred as she drifted back into consciousness. He carried her back to her room, preparing himself to weave the story that would tear her heart apart but keep her alive.

Left in the dim light, Dhalia looked down at Rio's lifeless body—the silent witness to all that had been taken from him. She thought of Chiara, of the hollow life that would now be hers, of Rocco's words—a twisted, noble lie to save them all. Ruby was next in her mind—pained by longing as she stood there, alone with the shadows of the past. She whirled around and up the stairs two at a time, her feet pounding against each step in a rhythmic crescendo, her chest heaving by the time she reached the attic. She hauled herself up the ladder, opened the window wide, and climbed out onto the rooftop; the cool night air nipped at her face. The silence of the world stretched around her, broken only by the faint, haunting melody of circus music from somewhere far away.

She reached the edge of the roof, turned her back, and looked to the sky as if for one final glance. "Ashes to ashes, flame to flame," she whispered, closing her eyes. "I am with you." Then, the sound of music still ringing in her ears, she launched herself into the darkness below.

WHAT IF?

ACE- ONE MONTH AFTER

Iwent home to lighter air as if the walls themselves let out a sigh of relief the moment the police carried away my father. And for the first time, it felt more like a home—a place where memories could be remade. They say if your heart hurts, surround it with people you love, and for me, that person was Carlo.

Outside, he was laughing, racing through the garden with Christian, their carefree joy washing over me, bringing a smile even as I leaned heavily on the kitchen island, jaw propped on my fists, watching them. Yet Rocco's words swirled in my head, his voice a whisper in the quiet.

"The end does not matter so long as the beginning is right."

In life, we never know the what-ifs, never see the path ahead, or who will heal and hurt us. Human nature stumbles along, hoping the heart can keep up. And mine, well, mine would never forget Rio—or those days at the House of Clowns. I knew that he would not have let me go willingly, knew there was a choice taken away.

Every day, I would write another chapter, grasping for a new beginning, yet sliding back to the pages that I had bookmarked, where he still lived in my heart. On those pages was his laughter, his presence, something more than just the mask he wore. Yet life has a way of snatching them back, making me continue to write, to turn the pages. But every line seemed to be haunted by memories of another.

A tear escaped onto my cheek, then the ringing phone snapped me back. I rubbed the tear off and steeled myself to answer.

"Hello?" My voice came steady, but upon hearing him—his voice at the other end—I froze.

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