Jester's steps came to a halt. He turned his gaze to the top of the hill, and his breath caught.
"No way! Why are you—"
He fell silent, shaking his head slowly, expression softening. "Ahh... so it's not him, huh?" he murmured, voice lowering. "I didn't expect him to be here. But... I didn't expect his brother to take his place either."
Albert stood in silence. His eyes, once blazing with vengeance and rage, now dimmed in quiet reflection. In that silence, he saw him again—the man he once called brother.
Jester lowered his head and gently lifted Harliqueen's weakened body.
"I know you. And I know your brother. I know your past. I have no business with you," he said flatly.
He stepped forward, moving through rubble and fallen bodies, until he reached a young soldier still able to stand. Without a word, he handed over Harliqueen.
"Take care of her. If you can't... don't bother standing," he said calmly.
Then he walked on, heading south, away from the battlefield he had turned into a spectacle of chaos.
Dr. Albert called out, "Can you take me to him?!"
Jester didn't stop. He didn't look back.
"Why do you want to see him? I know your brother well. There's no way he—"
"What's wrong with trying again?!" Albert cut in, louder than he intended. Silence.
Jester finally stopped and turned, his gaze sharp. There was a flicker of pity in his eyes. He studied Albert for a moment, then raised his hand and waved slowly.
"There's nothing left to reunite, Albert. You and he will meet someday, one way or another. I have no business with you. It's time... for my performance."
Slowly, he vanished like dust and light dissolving into air.
Albert was speechless. Tears fell one by one, wetting the dark soil that witnessed his fall.
"What made you so disappointed in me, Brother..." he whispered hoarsely.
He sobbed, collapsing like a melting candle.
"Was I never worthy of being your brother...? Never worthy of being part of your family...?!"
"I just wanted... to make you proud," he murmured weakly.
He stood—slowly, unsteadily—then stood again.
"If I have to walk through hell to find you again... then I will."
"It all started... ten years ago."
After Mother died, his gaze grew sharper, colder. When he looked at me, he never called me with that gentle voice again. Back then, when I was five, he used to hold me every night, stroke my hair, and call my name with love. I miss that version of him—the one who, with Mother, made our little home feel like a piece of heaven.
When she left, that home vanished with her. The nobles expanded their lands, bulldozing small villages, devouring our settlement. We ended up living under a bridge; the sky was our roof, and our walls were cracked stone pillars.
My brother became everything to me—the only one who brought dinner from the market, who traded our remaining household items for stale bread and watered milk. That day was the last. The final item. The only thing of value we had left: Mother's pendant.
He slipped through a narrow gap, barely wide enough for his thin frame. The nobles' city wasn't a place for people like us. But still, he went, eyes full of resolve.
In the marketplace, he managed to buy two loaves of bread and a bottle of milk. I could imagine him carefully arranging them in our worn basket. His steps were light, but rushed, weaving through the crowd. One more step, and then—
"Ah, sorry, Miss. I didn't mean to—please forgive me."
A young woman stood carrying a baby, startled but smiling kindly.
"It's all right, son. Are you okay?" she asked as she handed back the dropped bread.
"Thank you, ma'am. Thank you so much." My brother bowed deeply.
Just then, her husband arrived, carrying a sack of fruits and vegetables.
"What's going on, dear? Is something wrong?"
"No, just a boy who bumped into me," she replied.
My brother bowed again, ready to leave. But then he looked up. Just for a moment.
Their eyes met. And time froze.
That man—the young woman's husband—wasn't a stranger. He was our father.
My brother ran. He ran as far as his legs would carry him. He didn't care about the stares, about the basket he dropped, not even about the name he once spoke with reverence: "Father."
The sky darkened. Gray clouds rolled slowly over the city rooftops. And finally, the sky broke.
The first drops fell, as if the heavens themselves wept for the heart of a broken son. The drizzle turned into a downpour. Rain soaked my brother to the bone. Clothes clung to his skin, hair stuck to his face, and his steps, once swift, began to falter. Each step grew heavier. His breath, more labored. Until, on a narrow path between silent fields, he collapsed to his knees.
His sobs broke under the rain—a cry he could no longer contain. A cry that seemed to tear pain from his chest, each wail ripping apart another layer of his worst memories.
He wept. Loudly. Unashamed. Unbothered by who might hear. He hugged himself, as if trying to shield what was left of his shattered heart.
And amid the crying and the roar of rain, someone approached. Their steps were slow, unhurried. And the person who came was not a city guard, nor a passing stranger.
He was a man—in a faded clown costume, with smeared makeup washed by rain, and a gentle voice full of empathy.
"…Are you all right, son?" he asked. His voice was muffled by rain, yet somehow cut through the storm of grief.
My brother didn't answer. He just cried, letting tears and rain mix on his cheeks. His voice lost in sobs, his body shaking.
The clown asked nothing more. He simply knelt down and, without saying a word, lifted the trembling son into his arms. His steps were slow but steady, walking the wet path until he found shelter under an old roof—away from the rain and the eyes of the world.
After gently laying my brother beneath the dry shelter, the clown removed the mask from his face. The face beneath held no deception. No tricks. Only honesty in his aging, weary eyes.
"I don't know what happened to you, son," he said softly, almost a whisper. "But I know what I must do now."
He stood, turned around, and raised one hand to the sky, as if saluting the mourning heavens.
"I'll leave you here. You need time... to be alone. But," he paused, looking at the sky, "I'll bring you something. So you won't go home empty-handed."
He started to walk away. But a small, hoarse, fragile voice stopped him.
"Sir…"
The clown turned. "Yes, son?"
My brother looked down. His shoulders still trembled with grief that refused to release him.
"I... I left my things. The bread and milk... They're for my little brother. He'll starve if I don't bring them home..." His voice barely audible. "Could you... could you get them for me…?"