Curtain calls

A theatre in the middle of nowhere.
No one built it. No map marked it.
But still—every seat was filled. Commoners, nobles, even monsters... drawn by something they couldn't name.
The stage lights flickered.
Then came the music.
Soft.
Playful.
Wrong.
Jack appeared center stage, arms stretched wide, a stitched smile painted bigger than usual across his mask.
“Ladies, gentlemen, kings, ghosts, rats!”
He bowed low, as if mocking divinity itself.
“This is my final act.”
For hours, he danced.
He sang songs no one had heard before. He mimicked dead kings. Mocked gods. Played shadow puppet tragedies that made the audience laugh... and cry.
No one moved.No one breathed.No one left.
Even the moon above dared not blink.
At the final bow, Jack stood still for longer than he ever had.
Then removed his hat.
The bells fell silent.
He didn’t speak.
Just turned—and walked off stage into blackness.
Gone.
In his place, a single note was pinned to the curtain with a glass dagger.
It read:
“The joke wasn’t me.It was all of you.
Thanks for playing.– Jack”
Some say he was tired.Others say he saw something in the King that changed him.A few believe this was only part of a grander trick.
But wherever he went, silence followed.
And laughter was never quite the same again.