It was a rainy day.

The sound of rain drumming on the tent echoed loudly, and rainwater seeping through the gaps soaked the old wooden floor.

He rubbed his half-asleep eyes and gripped a ball. His fingertips still throbbed from the whip marks he received yesterday, but there was no problem holding the ball.

As he opened the door, bright lights and cheers rushed in all at once.

He flew through the air and made people laugh with his comical gestures. Behind the glamorous curtain, troupe members ran around frantically, and the ringmaster nodded as if satisfied.

The performance was a success.

The audience applauded, and coins showered onto the stage.

After the show, the ringmaster ruffled the boy's hair and gave a small laugh.

"You did quite well today."

With those words, the boy could forget all the pain he had endured throughout the day and even his hunger.

That night, he was even able to eat warm soup.

However, the next day, he was slapped again for repeating the same mistake.

The whip brushed past his thigh.

Tears welled up, but the boy did not cry.

Because he knew he would be hit more if he cried.

Still...

That evening, the ringmaster handed him a piece of bread as if nothing had happened.

The boy accepted it with both hands.

He did not hate the ringmaster.

No—he couldn't hate him.

The person who first called his name in this world, the person who gave him a tent to avoid the rain, the person who gave him food to fill his stomach, and the person who put a ball in his hand.

It was all that man.

The hand that gave him wounds was that man,

And the hand that caressed those wounds was also that man.

To the boy, he had no choice but to believe that this was what a family looked like.