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“I’M sorry. I lost my composure,” Pierre said.
“Don’t be. I thoroughly enjoyed today,” Sophie replied.
“That was just the tired, cliched act of a washed-up clown, you know?” he pointed out, raising a brow.
“Not for me, it wasn’t,” she replied evenly, then gently touched her face. “I don’t get out that often.”
“Ah…” His face fell into a small frown. Then, as if a thought struck him, it lit up again. He reached toward Sophie, stopped short, wiggled his fingers theatrically—then, with a flourish, whipped out a handkerchief.
From within, a wand appeared.
He spun it between his fingers, and as it twirled, the colors shifted. With a flick, it turned into an umbrella that snapped open as a flurry of confetti burst into the air.
Sophie giggled. Pierre’s face lit up instantly.
“Gather ’round, gather ’round!” he called, clapping his hands as he whisked off his hat and spun it.
He twirled the open umbrella, then tossed the hat onto it.
The hat rolled across the umbrella’s surface—doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo!—like a little acrobat.
“Thank you, thank you!” he cried, dipping into an exaggerated bow to end his impromptu show.
Sophie laughed and clapped enthusiastically. “We’re spinning more than usual today!” she said, referencing some other umbrella-twirling showman from a past life—one she was sure Pierre wouldn’t recognize.
Throughout the whole performance, she’d noticed: the harder she laughed, the wider she smiled, the brighter his eyes became.
And why would that happen if he wasn’t someone who really loved to make people smile?
“Mr. Pierre,” she said.
“Yes?” he replied.
“Not all of a clown’s audience walks down lively, bustling streets, do they?”
“Oh?” Pierre tilted his head.
Sophie thought for a moment. “Places like hospitals or orphanages. Or homes where the elderly live. I think there are a lot of people, tucked away from the main roads of daily life, who don’t have much access to joy. Or noise. Or wonder.”
Pierre didn’t hate being a clown.
Someone couldn’t hate something and still dedicate their entire life to it.
Since he was six years old—for fifty-four years—he had done it every day, without fail.
Every morning, he put on his makeup. So faithfully, so consistently, that it eventually stained his skin. He changed his routine and updated his tricks—but the makeup, the way his grandfather taught him, was the one thing he never altered.
Even when the crowds stopped coming. Even when the world forgot him.
That, he never changed.
“Children who see a clown for the first time—they’re mesmerized,” Sophie said. “And the elderly, when they see one, will remember. Fond memories of their parents taking them to see a clown for the first time. Then, beautiful memories when they took their own children to see one in turn. Clowns carry something with them. Nostalgia, maybe. A kind of lightness. They’re a part of celebration itself—always smiling, always a reason to smile.”
Sophie wished he would go to an orphanage. The orphanage.
Just picturing those two blue-eyed babes—eyes wide, mouths agape with wonder and delight—made her heart swell with warmth.
“You’re no longer the clown. But that doesn’t mean you’ve lost the choice to be one. You just have to put on the makeup. And if money is no longer a concern, why not perform, not as work, but for your own enjoyment? Not for money, not for fame. Just…because it brings you joy. You can go where it matters. Make someone smile. Take their tears away. Just like you did for me.”
Pierre listened to this, seemed to think on it very carefully, then, all at once, as if struck by a burst of restless energy, he slapped a hand onto his shoulder.
“Pieeeeerre!”
A flurry of white wings—out burst a dove, landing gracefully on his shoulder. He tapped his music box with his wand, and the dove he’d placed inside earlier fluttered free, landing on the other. Then, with a twirl of his wand, he spun his hat back into his hand, sweeping it onto his head and tugging the brim low with dramatic flair.
“Thank you for your intriguing words of advice! I shall give them the utmost consideration, young lady! Now then! I must bid you…adieu!”
“Thank you, Mr. Pierre.” Sophie smiled.
Whoooop! Whoop! Whoop!
Shaka-shaka-shak!
Leaving only the echoes of his jaunty tune and a trail of bubbles behind, the man who had once been a clown left the room.
Soon after, the soap bubbles vanished. All that remained were a few white feathers and scattered confetti—like remnants of a celebration that had swept in, roared through the room, and vanished, leaving behind a strange, quiet emptiness.