I remember the first time they laughed at me.

It was right after I was born, under the big top. The other elephants whispered, then giggled. My ears… they were too big. Too strange. They called me Dumbo—mocking me with a name that stuck.

Mom protected me. She held me close when they pointed. But when one of the drunk spectators went too far, she lashed out. They dragged her away, locked her in a cage labeled 'Mad Elephant.' I haven’t seen her since.

Now I’m alone. The circus makes me march with the clowns, dressing me up like a joke. Tonight’s the big show. They’ve got me walking the high wire—again. I don’t want to go out there. I can feel the crowd waiting, hungry for another laugh.

But then… I taste something strange. Pink water. It makes the stars swirl. And for the first time, I feel light.

I spread my ears… and I rise.

The crowd screams—not in mockery, but in awe.

They want me to fly again tomorrow. Without the pink water. Without the feather they gave me as a 'lucky charm.'

Can I do it?

Do I even want to?