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Summary
Jester has called humans strays for longer than most things have had names. They are manageable. Predictable. Entirely legible—given enough time.
Then a man in a black hoodie takes a seat in the third row and never looks away. He returns the next show. And the one after that. He leaves flowers in rooms that should be unreachable—rooms he has no business even knowing exist.
And letters. Handwriting clean, patient, deliberate. Not generic. Every word aimed, precisely, at him.
Jester—who has been right about humans for centuries—finds himself keeping a file that has no category.
Two years of flowers.
Two years of letters.
Two years of showing up to a circus that should have killed him—and walking back out again, unhurried, hands in his pockets, as if time belongs to him.
He does not behave like a stray.