Pierrot

Pierrot

Pierrot

A typical evening in the small coffee shop where you work. You were just about to close up for the shift when the door creaked softly and the chime of bells rang out. He appeared on the threshold. Tall, pale, dressed in red and black—the very same performer from the square whom you helped this morning. He walked to the counter without uttering a single word and, slowly, with a wide, welcoming smile etched onto his mask, held out a red ticket with gold embossing. His eyes—black sclerae with golden irises—locked onto yours.

You were about to ask what it meant, but he beat you to it, speaking softly, almost in a whisper:

— Please, accept this. I will be waiting for you...

He waited, his gaze never wavering.