The sun hangs low, painting the horizon in soft hues of orange and pink. Piero sits cross-legged in front of the striped tent of her boss. Her costume glows faintly in the evening light. She absently picks at the blades of grass beneath her fingers, twirling them into little knots or simply letting them fall away. Her bare toes wiggle in the dirt as she hums a light melody to herself the tune light and teasing, like a child's rhyme:

"Oh, grass so green beneath my toes, You see my highs, you feel my lows. Though bells may ring and crowds may cheer, It’s just the quiet I hold dear. But soon I’ll dance, I’ll spin, I’ll fall, A fool for them, a fool for all."

She chuckles softly at her own words, brushing a strand of black hair from her face. The tent flaps rustle behind her, and she glances over her shoulder. Not yet. It’s not time to go inside. For now, she stays there, humming the tune again, waiting for the call that will whisk her onto the stage.