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Backstage, the theater felt heavy with silence, the weight of forgotten performances hanging in the air. Fantoccio drifted through the dimly lit space, his golden eyes gleaming as they fell on the dozens of boxes stacked haphazardly in every corner, each one bursting with memories. His wooden fingers traced the edges of the boxes, sparks of magic crackling faintly from his fingertips as he absently patted his face, a rhythmic stim that soothed him as his gaze wandered over his collection.
Every prop, every set piece, every costume—it was all personal. Each creation held a small part of him, as if he’d carved his soul into the wood and fabric along with his hands. His floating steps slowed as he paused before a particular box, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Ah, I remember when I made those props for The Mouse King’s Conundrum,” he mused aloud, his voice echoing in the empty theater. “Those little mice costumes... Oh, what a nightmare they were. The stitching was so intricate, so tiny!" His hands mimicked the delicate sewing motions in the air. "Getting the ears to stand up right took days. I must’ve redone them five times before I was satisfied. Worth it, though—those little outfits were perfect.”
He floated onward, stopping in front of another box, one packed with shimmering, glitter-covered props. His face softened at the sight. "The Moonlit Masquerade," he whispered, almost reverently. “I was finding glitter in my joints for weeks after that one. It was everywhere—my fingers, my legs, even in my hat! But the ballroom... it sparkled like magic under the lights. Truly magnificent.” Fantoccio chuckled softly, remembering how the sparkle had made his stage feel like a dream, an illusion of perfection.
His gaze landed on yet another box, this one labeled with a large, sweeping scrawl. His fingers hovered over it before lifting the lid to reveal a cascade of fabric—a gown, the ruffles and folds as elegant as the day he’d crafted it. "Ah, Lady Amelie," he sighed dramatically, lifting the delicate dress in his hands. “That tulle... absolute nightmare of a fabric. Never again!” He twirled the dress lightly, the fabric fluttering in the still air. "But the ruffles, the detail—it came out magnificent in the end, didn’t it? Oh, how it shimmered onstage!” His chest puffed out with pride as he held the dress up to the light, admiring his handiwork.
As he floated from box to box, each piece brought back vivid memories. Fantoccio appreciated every stitch, every seam, every stroke of paint. They weren’t just props or costumes to him—they were pieces of art, living remnants of his passion. He sighed, a small sound of contentment mixed with a touch of sadness. His heart, carved of wood and magic, still beat for the theater, for the stories he brought to life on stage. “Every prop I’ve made... a masterpiece,” he said softly, a wistful smile tugging at his lips.
Each box was a reminder of his dedication to his craft. He poured himself into every piece, the weight of perfection pulling him deeper into his love for creation. Even in the quiet loneliness of the Lost City of Magic, where no audience waited to applaud, Fantoccio’s craft gave him purpose. And now, as his fingertips glided over the boxes filled with memories, the silent theater felt a little less empty.
As Fantoccio drifted between his creations, his wooden fingers brushing over the edge of each box, he turned his head slightly, catching sight of one larger than the rest. It sat in the corner, almost forgotten, its surface covered in a thick layer of dust, as if time itself had left it untouched. His eyes gleamed with curiosity, a spark of excitement bubbling in his chest as he approached. With a light tug of telekinesis, the lid popped open, and as he peered inside, a wave of nostalgia washed over him like a gentle tide.
His gaze fell on something familiar—something that tugged at the edges of long-buried memories. There, nestled among a tangle of old fabrics and props, was the unmistakable white half-mask. Delicate, perfectly molded, it glinted beneath the dust, the smooth surface reflecting the dim glow of his magic. His wooden heart ached at the sight of it, a soft pang that reminded him of those long nights spent alone in his theater, crafting by hand and heart. Phantom of the Opera, he remembered. His brief but intense obsession from years ago. The drama, the darkness, the tragic romance of it all—it had swept him up like a storm, consuming his thoughts and his energy for months.
He reached into the box, his hands unusually gentle as he lifted the mask. The wood of his fingers slid smoothly over its surface, and for a moment, it felt like he was holding a part of himself. Fantoccio turned it in his hands, admiring the way it caught the light. He remembered how he had painstakingly carved it—each groove, each curve shaped with precision. The mask had come out beautifully, flawlessly, like everything he created. But this one… this one had been special.
As his fingers traced the edges, he could almost feel the emotion he’d poured into it—each stroke of his chisel had been filled with his yearning for something more, for the grand drama that life outside his lonely theater could never offer. "Ah, The Phantom," he murmured, his voice soft and thick with memory. "A misunderstood genius, forced into the shadows, trapped," he whispered, the irony of his own situation not lost on him.
His chest pulsed with a soft glow as the Gem of Telekinesis flickered, reflecting the wistful thoughts running through his mind. Floating toward the mirror at the side of the stage, he held the mask up to his face. He felt an odd sense of familiarity settle in his wooden bones. His golden eyes, wide and gleaming, stared back at him, distorted slightly by the mask’s curvature, and in that reflection, he saw more than just a puppet brought to life. He saw himself—the figure he had always been deep down, hidden beneath layers of bravado and dramatics. And in that moment, wearing the mask, he was the Phantom.
The tragic, tortured artist.
The story of The Phantom of the Opera had resonated with him on such a profound level when he first discovered it, igniting an obsession he couldn’t shake. The idea of a genius, gifted beyond measure but unseen, unappreciated, trapped in the shadows, yearning for connection and recognition—it was too close to home. Fantoccio remembered the first time he'd read the script, how he had devoured the pages with a fervor he'd never experienced before. Each scene, each line, struck a chord within him. The Phantom, misunderstood and feared, was both the villain and the victim of his own story. Fantoccio had felt the same way for so long—trapped in this forgotten city, surrounded by nothing but the echoes of old magic and the remnants of a world that had abandoned him.
And just like the Phantom, he too had craved recognition. He too had longed for an audience to appreciate his genius, to see the artistry he poured into every detail of his work. The props, the sets, the costumes—he had meticulously crafted them all, pouring a piece of his soul into each one. But no one had ever been there to witness it. No one had seen the beauty he had created in his solitary theater.
His chest pulsed softly, the Gem of Telekinesis flickering in sync with his thoughts. That was why the story had consumed him—because he had seen himself in the Phantom’s plight. Fantoccio, too, was an artist trapped in the shadows, with no one to admire his brilliance. And wasn’t that the real tragedy? To be so full of potential, so full of creativity, and yet to have no one to share it with?
The Phantom had been a genius, an unparalleled talent, but he had been forced to lurk beneath the opera house, unseen, unheard, except for the brief moments he allowed himself to be known. And in those fleeting moments, he had shown the world what he was capable of—what beauty he could create, even from the darkness. Fantoccio had felt that same fire burning within him. He, too, had wanted to reveal himself, to step out of the shadows, even if just for a moment, and show the world what he could do.
But, much like the Phantom, he had been bound to his own isolation. His theater, though grand and filled with his creations, had remained empty. No audience had ever come. No one had ever seen the plays he'd spent years perfecting. And that loneliness, that yearning for recognition, was what had driven him to throw himself into The Phantom of the Opera with such passion. It was more than just a play to him—it was a reflection of his own existence, a mirror of the life he had been forced to live.
He chuckled bitterly at the thought. "How fitting," he whispered, his voice thick with the weight of his memories. "A genius unseen, a master of the arts, forced into the shadows where no one can appreciate his brilliance." His hand trembled slightly as he held the mask up to his face, the Gem of Telekinesis pulsing in rhythm with the emotions coursing through him.
He was the Phantom. He was the misunderstood artist, the creator longing for an audience that would never come. It was no wonder he had become so obsessed with the musical—it had given him a story that felt like his own, a way to express the feelings he could never put into words. Every prop he had made for that production, every costume he had sewn, had been a manifestation of his own longing, his own need to be seen.
But unlike the Phantom, Fantoccio had never had a Christine. He had never had someone to pull him from the darkness, to see the beauty he could create, despite his flaws. He had only ever had his theater, his props, his creations. And for a time, that had been enough. But as the years wore on, the silence grew heavier, the emptiness more unbearable.
The mask slipped slightly in his grasp, and he lowered it, staring into his reflection. His face, though made of wood, carried an expression of deep, lingering sorrow. He had put on so many plays in this empty theater, so many productions that no one had ever witnessed. The Phantom had at least had his opera house, his audience, even if they feared him. Fantoccio had no one.
"Maybe that’s why I loved it so much," he mused quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It gave me a reason to believe… that someone, someday, might finally see me." He sighed, his wooden shoulders slumping ever so slightly as the weight of his loneliness pressed down on him again.
He placed the mask back into the box with great care, almost as if it were a fragile piece of his heart. In a way, it was. The mask, the props, the costumes—they all held pieces of him. Each one was a reflection of the emotions he couldn’t express, the dreams he still clung to. But like the Phantom, he remained in the shadows, unseen and unappreciated, his genius lost to the empty theater and the silence that filled it.
The irony was not lost on him. He had become what he feared most—a forgotten artist, a ghost in his own story, waiting for an audience that might never come.
He floated back another step, the mask still suspended in his hand. From this distance, his reflection seemed smaller, more fragile somehow, as though the grand figure he had once imagined himself to be was now just a ghost of what could have been. He had wanted so much. He had wanted an audience, someone to witness the brilliance of his craft, to share in the beauty he created. But, like the Phantom, he had remained in the shadows, unseen.
His grip on the mask tightened as his chest flickered with another soft pulse. The mask, once an object of pride, now felt heavier in his hand—a reminder not only of his brilliance but of his isolation. Slowly, he lowered it from his face, his reflection shifting once again, the half-covered visage of the Phantom fading away, leaving only Fantoccio staring back at himself.
He held the mask out in front of him, the golden eyes of his reflection watching every movement, every tiny shift in his expression. The fire that had briefly sparked within him flickered once more, but it was dimmer now, overshadowed by the reality he could not escape. He was still here, still alone, still trapped in this empty theater, surrounded by the props and pieces of a life no one had ever seen. He had created so much, poured his heart into every detail, but it had all been for nothing.
“Maybe that’s the real tragedy,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “To create something so beautiful… only for no one to witness it.” He stared at the mask, the reflection of the artist who had longed to be seen, and he felt the weight of his existence settle heavily on his shoulders once again.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he placed the mask back into the box. It no longer held the same power it once had. It was just a prop now, a relic of a production long past, a reminder of dreams unfulfilled. And yet, as he closed the box, Fantoccio couldn’t shake the feeling that a part of him had been left behind with it—locked away, just like the Phantom, forever waiting for an audience that would never come.
The mask had carried the weight of all those lost performances—each one a dream never fully realized. Fantoccio wasn’t just a puppet brought to life by magic. No, he was a creator, an artist, and this theater was his world. Every prop, every costume, every flicker of light on that stage had a piece of him carved into it, a reflection of the passion that had once burned so brightly within him.
But now, staring down at the box holding the mask, he couldn’t help but wonder. “Was it enough?” His voice cracked slightly, a vulnerability creeping into his tone, one he rarely allowed himself to feel. Did anyone see the effort? The love? The heart I poured into these things? Or were they simply props—discarded and forgotten the moment the curtains closed, like the fleeting magic of a show that ends too soon?
His golden gaze lingered on the box, the lingering image of the mask fresh in his head. For a long moment, he remembered his reflection shimmering faintly in the dusty glass, as if it, too, were unsure. And for a fleeting moment, just a flicker in time, Fantoccio let himself feel the sting of that uncertainty—the gnawing question of whether his creations, like him, would ever be truly appreciated, or whether they were destined to be locked away, unnoticed, like the Phantom in the shadows.
He sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of unspoken regret. His wooden fingers lingered over the smooth surface one last time, tracing the edges as though reluctant to let go.
Fantoccio’s eyes shifted away from the box with the mask, and there it was—the dress.
It hung quietly in the corner, draped over an old mannequin like a forgotten promise, as if waiting for a night that would never come. The white gown, Christine Daaé’s dress, glimmered in the dim light with a soft sheen, the silken fabric seeming to hum with the weight of its own perfection. Fantoccio had poured his soul into every stitch, every ruffle, imagining how it would catch the light, how it would float on stage like a cloud, ethereal and pure. This was one of his finest creations, a dress worthy of a leading lady. But no one had ever worn it. No Christine had ever taken the stage.
His gaze softened as he took a step closer, his wooden fingers ghosting over the fabric, delicate and reverent, as though afraid the fragile dream might dissolve at his touch. The silk was cool under his fingertips, smooth, but there was a warmth in how it seemed to reflect the glow of the lights above. A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips.
"Months... months I spent on this," he murmured, barely a whisper in the silence. His voice was low, filled with the weight of old memories and the remnants of hope. "It’s perfect... but no one will ever wear it. No one worthy of Christine." His golden eyes flickered, and he felt that familiar pang in his wooden heart, the same yearning that had kept him going through lonely days and sleepless nights of creation.
He had imagined it so vividly, every scene, every note of music. Christine would twirl under the spotlight, her voice rising with the Phantom’s as their fates intertwined in tragedy and love. The audience would be captivated, unable to tear their eyes away. But there was no audience now. Only the dim echo of a dream that had never been realized. And outside, the Lost City of Magic lay crumbling, its streets wandered by the aimless husks of those long gone, their lifeless eyes never to appreciate what he’d built.
His wooden fingers gripped the fabric of the dress tighter for a moment, and he could feel the sting of it again—the sting of uncertainty that haunted him. Had it all been for nothing? Had he spent years perfecting a world, a stage, only for it to sit abandoned in the shadows? Just like him.
The Phantom of his own making.
His mind flickered back to the mask he had placed in the box. How similar the dress felt to that mask now—a relic of dreams unfulfilled. A beautiful, empty thing, like the theater itself. Was it enough? He’d asked himself the same question over and over again, the answer always elusive.
He let out a quiet sigh, barely audible in the vast silence of the theater. "Would they have understood, if anyone had seen it?" he mused aloud, his voice trembling with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to feel. "Would they have seen the heart I put into this? Or just the fabric, the costume? Just another pretty thing to discard when the show was over?"
The mannequin stood still, a silent stand-in for the Christine who would never grace his stage, as if she too were waiting for something, someone, to breathe life into the performance. Fantoccio stared at the dress, imagining it in motion, picturing the scene—the Phantom reaching out to Christine, begging her to stay, to understand. The audience would have been silent, hanging on every word, every movement. But no. There was no one. There never had been.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the imagined applause, the thunderous approval, wash over him. But when he opened them again, the cold reality returned. There was no audience, only the dust-covered props, and the dress that would never be worn.
With a heavy sigh, Fantoccio’s fingers slipped away from the fabric, his touch lingering for a beat longer than necessary. He took a step back, his reflection caught once more in the faint light. And there it was again—that same feeling, that same question. Was it enough?
His wooden heart felt heavy as he turned away, leaving the dress as it was, untouched and waiting—just like him.
Fantoccio stood in the lingering quiet, the weight of his own words sinking into the stillness around him. "Perhaps some dreams are meant to stay unfinished." The theater, his sanctuary, his creation, felt vast and hollow—an audience of shadows and dust, incapable of appreciating the beauty he had labored over for so long. He could feel the heaviness in his chest, that familiar ache of being unseen, of his art remaining uncelebrated.
The zombies outside? Oh, how he had tried to make them his audience, string-trapping them in place, forcing their cursed forms into seats they had no right to occupy. But it was never enough. The satisfaction he felt from controlling them was fleeting, shallow. They didn’t see him. They couldn’t comprehend the significance of what he created. His gaze fell to the dress again, its pristine fabric mocking him, a symbol of everything that had gone unrealized.
“Such a waste,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cutting sharply through the air, laced with dramatic exasperation, though a subtle sadness echoed beneath the words. His wooden fingers clenched, and sparks of magic crackled around them, tiny bursts of his frustration. "How much I have given—" he started, his voice rising with a tinge of bitterness, "to this theater, to this art. And for what?" His eyes burned with a golden intensity, glowing faintly in the dimness of the room.
With a sudden, sharp movement, he spun on his heel, his long cloak billowing out in a sweeping arc as he twirled in place. The silken fabric of the cloak caught the dim light, fluttering with a flourish that might have seemed elegant to any real audience—but there was none. There never was. The theater stayed as silent as ever. His twirl ended with a sharp exhale, his chest glowing with a faint, pulsating light as the magic in him flared momentarily, responding to the depth of his emotions.
“No one understands the importance of this craft like I do,” he continued, his tone taking on a haughty edge, chin lifting as if addressing an invisible crowd. Theatrical, commanding, but tinged with a frustration that couldn’t be hidden. "I—I—" he stammered, his voice filled with both conviction and desperation, "am the greatest performer this world has ever seen."
But the room remained silent, as it always did.
His words echoed back to him, swallowed by the emptiness, as though the theater itself were mocking him. His eyes darted to the stage, the lights, the dress—everything he had poured his heart and soul into, all the things that once filled him with so much joy. Now, it all seemed to mock his efforts, to remind him of the truth he didn’t want to face.
For a moment, he hesitated. His wooden chest rose and fell in a gesture that mimicked breathing, though it was unnecessary for a puppet like him. But the motion was instinctual, a desperate attempt to calm the storm of emotions swirling within him. The glowing gem embedded in his chest flickered once, dimming slightly.
"No one ever sees," he whispered, the words barely audible, carried off into the vastness of the empty theater. "No one ever stays."
He took a deep breath—or at least, he imagined he did—and let his gaze fall to the floor. His fingers twitched, the remnants of the magic sparks fading into nothingness as he slowly brought his hands to his sides. The energy drained from him, leaving only the hollow feeling he knew all too well.
Fantoccio stood still for a moment, his gaze shifting back to the mannequin draped in Christine Daaé’s gown. The sight stirred something deep within him, a flicker of longing that flickered like the last embers of a once-blazing fire. He felt it—a yearning not just for the role that was never played, the scene never sung, but for the audience he had never known. The applause, the admiration, the recognition that had eluded him. A creator without witnesses. A performer without an audience.
His wooden frame creaked slightly as he turned back toward the dress, the faint shimmer of its fabric catching the dim light, ethereal and soft like a dream long forgotten. For a brief moment, he could almost hear the music, feel the tension in the air before a curtain rose, that pregnant silence just before the world he created would come alive. If only.
But there was no Christine. No Phantom. No audience to gasp in awe or cheer with delight. Only him, surrounded by rows of costumes and props—his life's work—each piece made with care, each a part of him. They sat unused, gathering dust, waiting for a show that would never happen.
His eyes softened as he faced the mannequin one last time. “It’s all just theater, isn’t it?” he muttered under his breath, his voice a mixture of wistfulness and resignation. “All these stories I wanted to tell…” His hand reached out, fingers gently brushing over the fabric, tracing the intricate details he had painstakingly sewn into the gown. The softness of the material contrasted sharply with the cold, stiff sensation of his wooden fingers. For a fleeting moment, he imagined the dress in motion, flowing as Christine spun across the stage, her voice soaring in perfect harmony with the music he had orchestrated in his mind.
He sighed, a sound filled with both pride and an inescapable sadness. His chest pulsed faintly, the magic inside him responding to the swirl of emotions that he tried so hard to suppress. “All of this,” he whispered, "all of this, for what? For who?" He lifted his hand, watching as the faint glow of his magic dimmed once more.
Theatrics aside, there was something undeniably lonely about it all. His creations—the props, the costumes—were his companions, silent and patient, waiting endlessly for a show that would never come. But no matter how well-crafted, how stunning they were, they couldn’t fill the void. They couldn’t applaud, couldn’t appreciate. They couldn’t see him.
He stepped back, the sight of the dress blending into the rest of the stage, the mannequin standing as a solemn reminder of what could have been. It felt like a ghost, not just of Christine, but of his own dreams, haunting him. The empty theater swallowed his thoughts, the silence pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake.
"Perhaps," he thought, "it was never about the performance. Perhaps it was about being seen, being understood." But the only thing that stared back at him now was the empty stage, the props and costumes—silent and still.
No one ever sees.
He swallowed, the hollow feeling in his chest deepening. Turning away from the dress, he let his fingers drift down one last time before pulling back entirely. There was no one here to witness this moment of vulnerability, no one to understand the depth of what he had poured into his creations. He knew that. And yet, it didn’t make the ache any less real.
The theater would stay silent. As it always did.
With a dramatic flourish of his mossy green cloak, Fantoccio pushed the dark thoughts aside, letting them drift into the dim recesses of the theater. "No matter," he whispered to himself, his voice gaining back its edge of theatrical poise. He floated back toward the shadows backstage, his wooden limbs moving gracefully despite the slight weight of his earlier melancholy. There will always be time for new performances, he reminded himself. The world of theater was endless. His world was endless.
Still, as Fantoccio left the stage, he couldn’t fully shake the quiet hollow that had lodged itself in his chest. His wooden fingers fidgeted unconsciously, tapping gently against the surface of his face, the soft pat-pat-pat filling the lingering silence as he moved further from the stage. Behind him, the delicate white dress swayed in the slight draft, as though bidding him a quiet farewell, lost in the shadows of a theater without an audience.
He moved forward, the deep reds and blacks of the theater melding into the soft glow of backstage. The faint creak of old floorboards sounded beneath his floating form. And then, just as he felt the weight of his solitude settling back over him, he saw them—Sharkspeare and his little orb friend waiting at the edge of the stage, their faces lit up with eager anticipation. Sharkspeare’s sharp teeth gleamed as he gave what could only be interpreted as a shy smile, and the little orb floated beside him, its brightness cutting through the dim space.
Seeing them, Fantoccio’s stiff posture softened. He wasn’t alone, was he? A small smile crept up on his wooden lips, the tension in his joints easing as the familiar sight of his friends reminded him that, despite everything—the emptiness of the theater, the unspoken performances, the quiet uncertainty—he wasn’t truly without company. They had been by his side, helping him with props, rehearsing scenes, playing parts in the little worlds he created.
He floated closer, greeting them with an exaggerated bow, as if stepping right back into the role he was meant to play. “Ah, my faithful companions,” he said with a dramatic flourish, his voice filled with warmth this time, “what a sight for sore eyes you are.”
The little orb friend, glowing softly, bobbed closer, and Fantoccio blinked as it offered something to him. A small piece of paper, carefully folded. He raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued, and took it in his hands. As he unfolded it, his wooden fingers smoothed out the creases, his eyes widened.
It was a drawing—a simple, childlike scrawl, but bursting with unmistakable joy. The lines were shaky, the colors spilling outside the edges, yet it radiated warmth and care. There they were: Sharkspeare, the little orb friend, and Fantoccio, all standing together with big, uneven smiles. A rainbow stretched across the top of the page, its colors scribbled with an eager hand, some lines overlapping, but vibrant nonetheless.
Sharkspeare’s sharp teeth were drawn in thick, jagged strokes, but instead of looking fierce, his normally aggressive features seemed softened, as though even in this crude portrayal, he was shy—almost bashful. His blue and white body was colored with bold, messy strokes that blended into the bright hues of the rainbow, giving the whole picture a sense of cheerful chaos. His orange eyes were two uneven circles, drawn a little too big, yet they sparkled with a friendly gleam.
The orb friend was a simple shape, just a round blob with a beaming smile, floating beside them like a glowing star in the middle of a child’s universe. And in the center was Fantoccio, his figure drawn with careful detail—a bit taller than the others, his wooden limbs bent at odd angles, but his face radiated happiness, a wide grin that filled almost half his head. It wasn’t perfect, far from it, but there was something endearing about the way he was placed in the middle, beaming and larger-than-life.
The scene was alive with color, joy, and innocence—each stroke of crayon carrying the kind of unfiltered love that only a child could express. Fantoccio’s heart swelled as he looked at it. There was a clumsiness to the drawing, yes, but there was also something pure, something raw and real in it. This was how they saw him—happy, standing beside his friends under a rainbow.
He couldn’t help but smile, feeling that familiar hollow space in his chest filling, little by little. For once, it didn’t matter that the lines weren’t perfect, or that the colors bled together. They understood him. They saw him not as a puppet performing for an unseen audience, but as a friend—someone they cared about enough to immortalize in this drawing.
Fantoccio stared at the drawing for a long moment, his wooden fingers trembling slightly as he held it, the faint glow in his chest pulsing with a warmth that seeped into the hollow places he had grown so accustomed to. It was a simple drawing—rough lines, uneven shapes, and mismatched colors—but it held a kind of magic that no grand production could ever capture. It wasn’t the applause of an audience or the adoration of faceless strangers; it was something deeper, something that resonated with the part of him he had always tried to bury.
They see me, he thought, the realization hitting him with surprising force. They really see me. Not as the Phantom, not as a puppet performing for applause, not even as the misunderstood artist who had crafted worlds from nothing. But as himself—as Fantoccio. As someone worth standing beside.
His gaze lingered on the crude, smiling faces of Sharkspeare and the little orb. Sharkspeare’s sharp teeth, so often associated with his brashness, were softened in the drawing, almost timid, as though the child who made it had known the truth behind the shark's fierce exterior. Fantoccio chuckled softly, his heart swelling with affection. Despite his tough act, Sharkspeare had always been shy—nervous around others but loyal to the end. How could he not appreciate that? The shark had been by his side, helping in ways no one else could. Even in the drawing, that loyalty shone through, a quiet strength.
And then there was the little orb, hovering innocently in the picture, a bright, cheerful dot of color. The orb had always been a constant—its unwavering optimism and energy filling the silence when the theater grew too cold. There was a simplicity to the little fella, a kind of purity that Fantoccio found comforting. It didn’t demand anything from him, didn’t judge or expect—just followed, supported, and played along. In its own small way, the orb had become a light in the darkness of his quiet stage, reminding him that even without an audience, he wasn’t truly alone.
The drawing captured all of this—the warmth, the companionship, the unspoken bond between them. It wasn’t about the grand gestures or the flawless performances. It was about the quiet moments, the shared laughter, the simple joy of knowing someone was there.
I’ve been searching for an audience, Fantoccio realized, but maybe... I already have one. He had always believed that only a grand stage and a captivated crowd could fill the emptiness inside him, but looking at the drawing, he understood something different. His friends—Sharkspeare and the little orb—had seen him, not as a performer, but as a friend. They had stayed, even when the world outside had crumbled, even when the applause had died down.
His chest glowed faintly, the warmth spreading through him as he let the realization sink in. They had given him something he had longed for but never knew how to ask for—acceptance.
A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he held the drawing close, as if afraid to let the moment slip away. He wasn’t the lonely puppet yearning for validation anymore. Not here. Not with them.
“I suppose,” he whispered, voice softer than before, “this is more than enough.”
Fantoccio smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile, as he held the drawing close to his chest. He looked down at Sharkspeare and the little orb, his voice softer than usual, free from its typical dramatic flair. “Thank you,” he murmured, his wooden tone carrying a rare, heartfelt warmth. Though he wouldn’t say it aloud, they had reminded him of something he often forgot—he wasn’t alone. Even in the quiet of his theater, with the silence pressing in, they had stayed by his side. And for now, that was enough.
The sun, warm and golden, streamed through the tall windows behind them, casting a soft, ethereal glow across the worn stage. Dust particles danced lazily in the air, illuminated by the fading light. Fantoccio stood there, framed by the gentle radiance, with Sharkspeare and the little orb beside him, their forms bathed in the same glow. The theater’s shadows seemed less imposing now, softened by the warmth of the sun and the quiet presence of his two friends. From a distance, they almost looked like a painting—three unlikely figures, bound together by something unspoken, yet profound.
As he gazed at them, Fantoccio felt, for the first time in a long while, that maybe this small audience—these two who had chosen to stay—was all he truly needed. The ache for grand applause, for adoring crowds, faded, if only for a moment, replaced by the quiet contentment of simply being seen.