Chapter 3 — The Forgotten Wagon

Sera

The sun hung low in the sky by the time Sera reached the outskirts of the circus grounds. Beyond the rows of wagons and the warm glow of lanterns, she found herself surrounded by the quiet hum of nature. Here, past the orderly chaos of the troupe’s world, the forgotten wagon stood like a sentinel of memory, its silhouette cast long against the dusky horizon. Weathered wood, warped and peeling, gave it an eerie dignity. Ivy coiled stubbornly around its edges, its sinewy tendrils weaving through the cracks in the faded paint. Wildflowers swayed in the gentle breeze, their sweet perfume mingling with the familiar scents of sawdust and damp earth that lingered even here.

Sera hesitated at the threshold, her boots sinking slightly into the soft ground. The wagon had always been more than just an abandoned relic—it was a reliquary of dreams and heartbreak. Once alive with the creative energy of her parents’ laughter and plans, it now loomed like a mausoleum, heavy with the weight of time and grief. She had avoided it for years, unwilling to confront the memories it held. But now, with her father’s journal tucked in the satchel at her side and the echoes of his final words—*“Our legacy depends on it. Protect it”*—pressing against her every thought, she could no longer stay away.

Her gloved hand rested on the faded door. For a fleeting moment, she considered turning back, letting the past remain untouched, its secrets undisturbed. The thought of reliving those memories wrapped tightly around her chest. But the journal’s cryptic entries churned within her, and she knew she couldn’t ignore them any longer. Taking a steadying breath, she pushed the door open, the wood creaking in protest. Dust rose in a ghostly swirl, catching the fading light that filtered through fractured windows, casting the wagon in a hazy, golden glow.

The air inside was dense, steeped in the mustiness of aged wood and paper left too long to the damp. Beneath it lingered the faintest trace of lavender—her mother’s scent—woven into sachets long faded. Sera’s emerald eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness, taking in the melancholy tableau preserved here. Costumes, dulled with age, slumped over broken chairs like forgotten performers. Props leaned haphazardly against the walls, their once-bright colors muted, their purpose long forgotten. A wooden cane, intricately carved with floral patterns, rested in one corner, while a sequined fan lay draped over a faded poster advertising her parents’ dazzling debut.

Her breath hitched as a wave of grief and nostalgia swept through her. For a moment, she could almost hear their voices—her father’s deep and steady, her mother’s laugh like the chiming of bells. The memory of them filled her chest, sharp and bittersweet. Her knees weakened under the weight of their absence, but she gritted her teeth and steadied herself. She wasn’t here to mourn them—not now. She was here to understand, to piece together what they had left behind.

Moving deeper into the wagon, her boots scuffed softly against the dust-covered floor. The wagon creaked beneath her weight, each sound an intimate reminder of the times she had once spent here as a child, watching her parents plan their routines and dream of the circus’s future. Her gaze landed on a small, weathered trunk tucked beneath the table. Its lock had long since rusted away. Kneeling, she eased it open, the lid groaning as she lifted it.

Inside, fragments of her parents’ lives lay untouched. A faded photograph caught her eye—her mother mid-air, arms outstretched as though she were reaching for the stars, while her father stood below, steadying the rigging with a proud smile. Sera ran her thumb over the edges of the photo before setting it aside. Beneath it was a small silver locket, smooth and cool against her palm, its surface etched with delicate stars. She traced the engraving absently before carefully placing it back. Finally, a stack of papers bound together with a fraying ribbon beckoned her attention.

As she unwrapped the bundle, something slid free from between the pages and landed in her lap with a soft thud. Her breath stilled as her fingers brushed over its leather cover. It was a journal—not her father’s, but smaller and more delicately bound. When she opened it, the familiar loops and tight strokes of her mother’s handwriting brought a lump to her throat.

Her hands trembled as she turned the pages, her mother’s voice emerging in soft trails of ink. Most of the entries were mundane—notes on costumes and sketches of routine formations—but deeper into the journal, the tone shifted. The words grew heavier, laden with tension.

*“Alain is insistent. He says we must hide it, keep it safe. But I wonder if even we truly understand its significance. The pendant is more than just a symbol—it feels alive in our hands, a tether to something greater. Perhaps that’s why Lucien is so fixated on it. He sees power where we see unity. I only hope we’re right to keep it from him.”*

The pendant.

Sera’s breath quickened as she read on, her pulse thudding like a drumbeat. More hints and fragments emerged, scattered through the pages: *“Beneath the stars,”* her mother had written, *“where all beginnings and endings intertwine.”*

“Beneath the stars,” Sera murmured aloud, the words catching in her throat. Her mother’s cryptic phrase echoed in her chest, stirring something deep and instinctual. The pendant wasn’t just a relic. Her mother’s words had given it life, connecting it to something vast, something essential to the circus and the family that had built it. Her parents had seen unity in its gleam, a symbol of what they believed in. Lucien, of course, had seen something entirely different.

And then it clicked. *“Beneath the stars”*—it wasn’t just a poetic phrase. It had to mean something tangible. Her father’s final words, *“beneath the ring,”* suddenly aligned with her mother’s. The Starlit Tent itself, with its celestial patterns and central ring, seemed the most obvious connection. Could the pendant have been hidden there all along?

The wagon creaked softly behind her, pulling her from her thoughts. Her head jerked up, her breath catching. The sound was too deliberate to be the wagon settling under its own weight. She froze, straining to listen. A faint shuffle followed, the crunch of footsteps on gravel.

“Who’s there?” she called, her voice sharp and cutting through the quiet. She stood quickly, her fingers clutching the journal tightly.

No reply.

She moved toward the door, her steps deliberate and slow. The wagon felt smaller now, its walls pressing inward as her senses stretched outward. Peering into the twilight, her sharp emerald gaze swept over the overgrown grass and wildflowers outside. The faint disturbances in the soft dirt—a trail of small, precise footprints—made her pulse quicken.

Her jaw tightened. Someone had been there. Someone had seen her.

Debating whether to follow the trail or head back, instinct steadied her course. She stepped outside, scanning the horizon. Whoever had been there was long gone, but the message their presence left was clear: she wasn’t the only one searching for the pendant.

Her gaze turned toward the heart of the circus. Against the darkening sky, the Starlit Tent rose like a beacon, its fraying canvas catching the faint light of the first stars. The journal pressed against her side, heavy but reassuring—a reminder of the truth waiting to be uncovered. If the pendant was hidden where she suspected, she wasn’t just racing against time but against those who would see her parents’ legacy destroyed.

“Beneath the stars,” she repeated, her voice firm now. The words carried more weight, tied to both hope and urgency. With determination threading through her veins, she began walking back toward the tent. She would protect what her parents had left behind. She would not let Lucien—or anyone else—take that away from her.

The answers she sought felt closer now. But so did the danger.