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The day Simeon Saint is released from prison is the most uneventful day of his life to date.
There is no one to greet him and there is certainly no place to go home to anymore. His landlord had apparently went to Berry Big himself and gave his few belongings to Regina shortly after his arrest. Then, during Regina’s one and only visit over the course of his entire sentence, Simeon couldn’t help but grimace and tell her to just throw it all away. Regina had sweetly blinked away her tears and asked him if he wanted to at least keep one of Money’s outfits – as if he’d want a souvenir from that thing after it bit him five times.
Naturally, Simeon just shook his head and scowled. In return, Regina told him she would never hire him again.
It didn’t bother Simeon. Berry Big was better off without him, anyways.
And at this point, Simeon figures that the entire world would be, too. Kanis had died halfway into Simeon’s sentence, so as he sets foot into the world as a newly free man, the wind kisses his cheek and the sun soaks his skin, and he remembers all at once that there is no one waiting for him anymore, both inside and outside of the prison walls.
Because when Kanis died, Simeon stopped bothering with the world, and the world stopped bothering with him.
Consequently, he had only somewhat planned his post-incarceration life during the months leading up to his release. His sparse plan mainly involved acquiring a gun and immediately robbing some fast-food place for one last meal before offing himself in their kitchen, but when the prison guards began sarcastically counting down the days and making barking noises at him, he had begun considering if there was a better way to go out.
He racked his brain for days. He found that the only thing that still got to him through his otherwise impenetrable apathy was the fact that Miles Edgeworth, of all people, had been sending him letters throughout his sentence.
The letters were mostly filled with banal questions about how Simeon was doing, and if he’d finished up his correspondence college degree in business (which served no particular purpose besides killing time). Simeon generally wrote terse responses back, though he’d occasionally beg Edgeworth to tell him something interesting about his open murder cases – anything gruesome to ward off Simeon’s boredom.
His panhandling never did work, which was frustrating. God forbid a guy take an interest in true crime.
Simeon having been a hot topic in true crime himself had absolutely nothing to do with it, but Edgeworth never seemed convinced.
There was one time where Edgeworth had written to him, concern blotting his paper, when word got out that Simeon tried to hang himself with Kanis’ sheets shortly after the old man died. Simeon still remembers it like it was yesterday. The sheets had still smelled like Kanis, and like his clay, and the scent only grew stronger when they tightened around Simeon’s neck. Helmut came sniffing at him and nipping at his feet, and Simeon briefly wondered if the old mutt thought he was some kind of steak dangling in the air now that Kanis wasn’t there to make Simeon look human again.
Then, Helmut started barking, and Simeon suddenly woke up in the infirmary. A prison guard showed up in the small room after a while, telling him Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth had come to visit.
Simeon grinned as bright as day before telling him to turn the prosecutor away.
And still, Edgeworth was the only person to never cease contact with Simeon, even after he failed to kill himself. (Just another failure to add to his list.) While Regina had only come by once, Edgeworth bested her with a grand total of two successful visits - the first a month into Simeon’s incarceration, during which Simeon bluntly told him to fuck off and die.
The second time was a month before Simeon’s release, and Simeon still told him to fuck off, but he held back on telling him to die. It was his way of thanking Edgeworth for at least having the class to keep in touch with the guy he threw in the slammer. He couldn’t tell if Edgeworth interpreted it that way, but he secretly hoped he did, because that was the closest thing to gratitude he’d ever show.
That is, until he had exactly one week until his release, and he was finishing up his nightly ritual of reading through all the letters Edgeworth had sent to him over the years. The letters had become Simeon’s personal bedtime stories, postmarked from someone who generally was not real.
The Edgeworth in Simeon’s head was endlessly kind but too busy to visit, and he cared deeply about Simeon, much more than he cared about his stupid farce of a detective or his disgraced attorney friend. That meant that Simeon was special, and it was a nice, consistent fantasy to dream about before going to bed and hoping he’d never wake up.
But that night was different. With just one week left in his sentence, Simeon had made significant headway into the archive of their correspondence. That night, he’d reached a years-old letter where Edgeworth congratulated him on getting his business degree and asked what he planned on doing with it when he got out.
Simeon had joked that he was going to open up his own circus. At least, it was a joke at the time.
He’d also tried to draw a middle finger next to his signature, but he quickly erased it when it came out terribly ugly. He’d just flip Edgeworth off in person one day, and he didn’t care if he did it to the real Edgeworth or the imaginary Edgeworth.
But that night, on the precipice of his freedom, Simeon felt himself smiling as he pressed his fingers against Edgeworth’s letter, reading the man’s response over and over again, so strikingly written in a brilliant, smooth black:
“I look forward to seeing your grand opening.”
Simeon bent his head to softly lick at the ink and hummed.
Now, as he sits on a bus to the halfway house his counselor recommended, he licks his lips and tries to remember how Edgeworth’s words tasted.
* * *
As it turns out, Regina’s declaration that she’d never hire Simeon again didn’t mean that she’d never talk to him again. As soon as Simeon gets to the house, he calls her from the shared landline and begs her to come see him.
She shows up the next morning with Money perched on her shoulder.
“I need your help.” Simeon cries to her, falling to his knees on the lawn before her. “I want to be a circus performer again, but no one will take me in with a criminal record.”
She looks at him sadly, her eyes getting wet with tears. Money looks indifferent. “But…I also can’t take you in because you have a criminal record.”
“I know,” Simeon sniffs. “So I’d like to start my own circus act - a one-man show, maybe. But I have no money, no connections - hell, I don’t even have any animals.”
And that little act is all it takes for Regina to pull out her phone and start making calls.
Simeon still has it, after all.
* * *
The crowd rises to their feet and roars, the sound growing louder and louder as the curtain closes. I stand there in the darkness of the stage, running my hand along the rough fabric of the curtain as I listen to the sweet melody of their cheers.
I was absolutely perfect tonight. Now they’ll no longer know Simeon Saint as the murderous clown. They’ll know me as the unstoppable one-man circus, taking over the world one tamed lion at a time.
When I’ve had enough of applause, I turn to head backstage, and I’m surprised to find the man of my dreams standing just behind me.
He looks just as dashing as he did seven years ago. His hair has turned a few shades lighter, glowing silver in the dim lighting, but his smile warms me all the same.
“Mr. Saint.”
He pulls a large bouquet from behind his back and extends it to me. It’s a mix of red and white roses, with baby’s breath dotting the edges. When I take it into my arms, I nearly sag with the sheer weight of it.
“Wow! This is all for me?”
He nods graciously. “For such a stellar performance.”
When he leans down to kiss me, I feel as if in the air again, on the tightrope up high, and I know I’ll never fall again.
* * *
Over the course of the next week, Simeon hogs the house’s landline to coordinate with different exotic animal traders and performance venues. He takes the city bus all over town, and he uses the money Regina lent him to purchase cloth at shoddy fabric stores and stitch together his costumes.
There is also, of course, his assigned chores, but he makes time for it all by only sleeping an hour or two a day – if he decides to sleep at all. In the late evenings, when all the other ex-cons are asleep, he takes taxis to the piers and ventures for spare cash the old-fashioned way. He has done such work in the past, long before Berry Big took him in, when the other teenagers at the orphanage kept stealing things from him and he wanted things like headphones and an iPod.
Now, it earns him money for more essential items - like future food for the animals and venue leasing fees. He tells the house manager that he’s just working night shifts at a burger joint, and luckily, the man has never tried to verify it.
The piers make much more than some silly fast-food job after all, and it’s so much easier for him.
It’s so easy that, when he wakes up with a sore throat one day, he just sucks on some cough drops and picks up his sewing needle.
Simeon likes to watch TV while he sews. There is one TV in the house’s living room, and since the others work during the day, he keeps it on the local news channel. There’s been some talk of something called “The Dark Age of Law” – which, Simeon thinks, is a tacky name – and the second he hears about it, he volunteers to pick up newspapers for the house every morning. He always gets two copies from the bin down the street: a shared copy for the house and a personal copy for his scrapbook, which is just a spiral notebook he found while cleaning the house that he decided to keep for himself. The first few pages were some former resident’s tragic musings about recidivism and homelessness, but he ripped those out so he could start anew.
He cuts out every new paragraph that mentions Edgeworth, or an unnamed prosecutor that could be Edgeworth, and gently glues it to the thin pages. At night, before he leaves for the piers, he pens a long-running letter to Edgeworth around the cutouts.
“Here is my invitation to you, Edgeworth.”
“I hope to see you soon.”
“I await your grand arrival.”
When his throat starts hurting more and he finds himself unable to speak, he writes to this imaginary Edgeworth that he’s changing up his act.
He’ll be a mime.
* * *
Edgeworth is the perfect gentleman. Just after kissing me so tightly we squished the bouquet between our chests, he looked me in my dazed eyes and politely asked if I’d come with him to a Christmas village in the outskirts of town.
I said yes immediately.
His arm is soft against mine as he leads me through the streets. Christmas lights hang above us, suspended along shop signs and awnings, and the air is dotted with the smell of cinnamon and wintergreen trees. To our wayside, kids laugh and dash out of bakeries with pockets full of looted cookies, but all I can see is Edgeworth and his reddening nose.
“You’re going to catch a cold,” I say softly. “You can have my jacket if you’d like.”
He sniffs. “Then you’ll be cold. I won’t risk that.”
Always the gentleman.
He continues, “Let’s just stop in a store to warm up for a bit.”
We duck into a small gift shop. He points at a clay ornament with a clown and looks at me with a knowing smile.
I laugh. “You’re the one who looks like a clown right now. We should head back before you turn into an icicle.”
“Maybe so.” He glances around the store again. “How about you pick out a tin of hot chocolate and we enjoy it at my place? I have a fireplace.”
I nearly run over to the display. I’ve never gotten rid of my sweet tooth, even after all the pain it’s given me. I don’t mind it so much as Edgeworth slides the tin of hot chocolate to the cashier and pulls out his shiny debit card.
I’ve never had a Christmas like this.
After we check out, we make our way back to his car, and he warms my hand with his as he steers us back to downtown. I stare at the wonderful suburbia outside of the window, inflatable snowmen and reindeers waving at me from their spots on the lawns. Edgeworth’s neighborhood is full of upper-class families, and if there’s anything I’ve learned from my few interactions with yuppies, it’s that they never miss a chance to decorate.
Edgeworth pulls the car into his driveway. It’s plain, without a single LED in sight.
“Not much into decorating?” I ask.
He shrugs and opens my car door for me.
His house is huge, practically a mansion to me, and sure enough, he has a robust fireplace in his living room. He lights it and beckons me to sit on the couch. I sit on the side closest to the fire, the flames so captivating that I nearly miss it when he gently slides a mug into my hands.
“I could’ve helped,” I say quietly. I didn’t really want to help anyway, but it seems polite to offer, even if it’s after the fact.
Edgeworth shakes his head as he takes a seat beside me. “You’re my guest.”
We sit in a peaceful silence for a while and take sips of our drinks. Then, I feel him scoot closer to me.
I lean back and give him a timid look. A gentleman like Edgeworth would surely be put off if I’m too eager. “I’ve never done…this. Like, the whole date thing.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Really?”
I nod. “Never had the chance.”
He’s quiet for a few moments, then he plucks my mug from my grasp and sets it next to his on the coffee table. He wraps an arm around me and pulls me closer.
“Then I’d be honored to be the first.”
My first real Christmas, with my first and only true love.
* * *
It turns out planning a one-man circus is hard work.
It’s especially hard when you can’t talk.
Simeon laments about this on a scrap piece of paper while visiting Berry Big Circus. The place has become his one and only hangout spot, even when Ben and his stupid puppet eye him warily – though Simeon’s not really sure how a puppet manages that.
Regina gives him a worried look. “If you’re sick, maybe you should take a break from planning?”
Simeon slams his hand on the table, startling Regina.
He takes a deep breath and smiles at her apologetically before writing another line on his paper.
Sorry! The fever makes me irritable.
He nods, satisfied with the excuse. Regina is the only one helping him. He can’t upset her now.
Fortunately, she accepts his apology and reaches out to take his hand, earnest as ever. “Why don’t you go to the doctor?”
Simeon shakes his head, but before he can write his explanation that he doesn’t have any money, Trilo – the fucking puppet – speaks up, his grating voice chattering through his wooden mouth.
“Sore throat? Maybe the clown has Chlamydia – Clown Chlamydia! CC! They need to get you ten CCs, stat!”
Simeon throws his pen at Ben’s forehead, because it’s both wide and wide open. The pasty thing beads sweat around a growing bruise as Ben looks down at his lap. “Why’d you hit me? Trilo said that.”
Simeon is suddenly acutely aware of why recidivism rates are so high. If Trilo really is his own person, perhaps Simeon could be up for a double homicide.
Regina, who probably doesn’t even know what Chlamydia is but seems to infer that it’s a disease, opens her wallet and gives Simeon more cash.
“Go see a doctor,” she says sweetly.
Simeon grins. He was always cool with Acro in prison, but he’s never been happier that the guy missed.
* * *
With his voice and energy back, Simeon is undefeatable. His costumes have been sown to perfection, he’s secured deals for the temporary leasing of a group of monkeys, a lion, and a tiger, and he’s convinced Maximillion to set up and direct stage lighting for him. It turns out threatening to expose a magician for still chasing after teenagers can get you a hell of a deal on circus labor.
Regina is over the moon when Simeon uses the house landline to phone her with his updates.
“This is great!” She cheers. “Now all that’s left is promotion!”
Simeon freezes. Advertising. He’d completely forgotten about that.
“Well…” He speaks slowly into the phone. “I actually wanted to ask you about that. I know you’ve already done a lot for me, and I really appreciate it. But if you could point me in the direction of some promoters – or anything at all – I’d really appreciate it.”
Regina hums. “Honestly, the easiest and cheapest thing to do is to promote on social media.”
Simeon groans. “I’m not good with that kind of stuff. I haven’t really used it for the last seven years, you know?”
“Don’t sell yourself short! What’s the last app you remember using?”
Simeon pauses and considers the question for longer than he’d like to admit.
“Facebook?”
There’s a long silence on the other end.
“Stop by Berry Big tomorrow. I’m getting you a cellphone.”
* * *
The whole TikTok thing is stupid, but a mix of filming Berry Big’s monkeys and putting “trending audios” – as Regina had called them – over it, and prancing around in his hand-stitched costumes to dopey songs, seems to win him a modicum of attention. He even cross-posts the videos to Instagram, where they get notably less traction, but Regina says it’s something about the site’s algorithm.
Whatever that means.
He still sets up a Facebook event to spite new-age social media, and he’s pleased when a few dozen people mark themselves as interested. He even uses his shiny new iPhone to call Maximillion and convince him to post about the show to his hundreds of thousands of followers.
“I’d rather not taint my page by promoting something as sordid as a killer’s show,” Maximillion sighs melodramatically. “I have a certain image to keep, you know?”
“I have pictures of you pulling up to the piers.”
“Send me the flyer you want me to post,” Maximillion says before promptly hanging up.
Maximillion’s post gets Simeon bucket loads of engagement, but it also circulates his name in rather aggressive corners of Twitter and other apps for self-aggrandizing wordsmiths.
“Maximillion Galactica just publicly supported that guy who killed people with a hot air balloon.”
“Disappointed but not surprised. They both have the same shitty makeup”
“wait isn’t this the ‘hot murder clown’ true crime twt was talking about??? LMFAO prison took a toll on him”
“Idk he’s still kinda fine to me ngl”
Simeon’s only slightly titillated by the backhanded compliments. There’s something strangely arousing about being so publicly humiliated like this, knowing that with every mention of his name, the likelihood that Edgeworth might see something about him increases. He wonders how it would feel to be Edgeworth, to see the guy that you threw in jail for the crime of mourning his dad become the talk of the internet again.
He imagines it’s quite the mind-fuck.
* * *
Becoming a mini-internet celebrity (or, as Maximillion calls him, a “lolcow” – whatever the fuck that is) turns out to be the fastest way to sell tickets for a one-man circus. Still, even with the social media boost, Simeon finds that virtually all of the profit is going towards paying off the leases for his exotic animals and the Sunshine Coliseum’s venue fees. Regina had negotiated a layaway-esque deal with the Coliseum owner and even spotted him for a few of the payments, but it’s becoming increasingly clear to Simeon that he’s not going to turn much of a profit off of this one show.
If there is any profit to be made at all.
It's fine, for the most part. He still gets to live free in the halfway house, and Maximillion is still carrying all of the behind-the-scenes production for free. Or, at least, for the promise of not being exposed to the public.
Simeon doesn’t care either way. He’s not in this for money, after all.
He’s a week out from the show when he’s kicking his feet around his dingy bed, scribbling on a fresh piece of notebook paper. He’d neatly peeled it off the perforated edges, taking good care not to spill a drop of sweat or tears on it. The page before it was littered with calculations about the show’s precarious budget, but this one is preserved for the most important guest of all.
He licks around his mouth, remembers the taste of the inked words from all those years ago, and writes.
Mister Edgeworth,
Long time, no see – or write. I hope this letter finds you well. I’m writing to formally invite you to an event that I’ve been working on ever since I finished my sentence. Before now, it lived only in our correspondence as a dream I could only hope to achieve.
It is called “The One Clown Circus: Simeon Saint’s Holiday Revival.”
Enclosed is a free VIP ticket for you. It will be an hour-long circus special, during which I will do clown routines, showcase beautiful, talented animals (remember Money?), and even walk the trapeze. My costume and makeup will both be Christmas themed too. (It just sort of happened that the one time I could book the Coliseum was Christmas Eve. Go figure.)
I’ll stop there, since I run the risk of sounding like an advertisement. I’ve read that this time of year can be difficult for you. It’s difficult for me too, but I hope this show can change that for both of us.
I look forward to seeing you there.
Sincerely,
Simeon
Simeon seals the envelope with a fervent press to his chest, right against his fluttering heart, and smiles. He spends the rest of the evening writing much shorter letters to Edgeworth’s associates – well, Gumshoe and Kay, at least – to seal the deal. He knows Edgeworth will come either way since he’d been so excited about the mere concept of the show all those years ago, but he knows there’s no such thing as being too sure when dealing with someone as busy as Miles Edgeworth.
Especially when the show is set for December 24th.
Somewhere in the last half of his sentence, Simeon had spent a week or two in the prison’s library, reading what had been documented of Miles Edgeworth’s life online. He’d found surprisingly little. There was an article about his father’s passing, another about his first trial as a greenhorn prosecutor, and a short op-ed about his winning streak.
But then, Simeon found a much more recent article entitled “The Real Story of Manfred von Karma and DL-6.” It kindled a small, strange flame in Simeon’s chest, which only seemed to burn brighter with time and with each letter exchanged.
Perhaps Edgeworth always responded to Simeon’s letters because he, too, had lost everything he held dear in the dead of Winter.
The show would be Simeon’s way to thank him, and to say “we’re the same” – to reunite in the way Simeon knows they’ve been destined to.
* * *
Everything about Edgeworth is perfect. From the perfect angle of his knee to the perfect princess-cut diamond tucked the in blue velvet box he extends to me, everything is perfect.
Some articles float around about how the incumbent Chief Prosecutor is soon to be wed to the ex-con turned circus starlet. Edgeworth ignores every single one, of course. He says they’re silly tabloids, inane gossip rags for the masses.
I, however, print every article I see.
I like that the world is looking at us.
One late Los Angeles afternoon, I’m standing in the lobby of the prosecutor’s office, waiting for my fiancé to come down from his prestigious office. He reminds me of a princess in times like this. “Miles, please let down your hair!”
When he does finally descend the staircase – he hates elevators, I know this to be true – and we step outside, we’re greeted with a few straggling reporters. One of them crowds my space, holding an old-fashioned tape recorder in her hands.
“Mr. Saint! Do you think it’s right for a murderer to be marrying the most powerful legal professional in the city?”
I bristle, but Edgeworth juts out a calm, but assertive, hand. He smiles softly at me and whispers, “There’s no need.”
He turns to the reporter with a stern look.
“Simeon served his full sentence in devotion to rehabilitating himself. He is no longer a prisoner. He’s a hard-working member of society, just like you and I.”
He extends a hand to me, and I accept it without a second thought.
He nods one last time at the reporter.
“And he is the love of my life.”
With that, we take to the parking garage, and I’m reminded how lucky I am to know a love like this. To know that everything I must have felt before, the fleeting infatuations with Bronco and unusually soft trysts on the piers, was just a series of scrimmage matches: rehearsals for me to practice for the real thing.
That’s why Bronco is dead, and Edgeworth is here.
He’s here, and he’s alive, and he’s in love with me.
* * *
When the grand curtain falls, Simeon runs backstage, grinning and panting as Regina proudly shoves a giant bouquet into his hands.
“That was wonderful, Simeon!”
Maximillion tugs his headset off and grimaces. “I hate to say it, but I don’t disagree.”
Simeon blows him a kiss, which the stupid creep has the nerve to recoil at. “Not like this had been my career for years or anything.”
Trilo – or Ben, fuck, why was the voice always so realistic – laughs too loudly for Simeon’s comfort. “Even all that time in the hole couldn’t stop you!”
Simeon ignores the puppet as he herds the group to the green room, where the VIPs would get to hang out after the show. He’d decided to let his budget go into the red just to have it catered. It seems to be a good decision, albeit a fiscally dissonant one, since Regina jumps up and down as she fills her plate with beautiful pastries and tiny sandwiches.
“You’ve gone above and beyond,” she smiles.
Simeon feels something like affection tugging at his heart. Regina annoys him, and always has, but she did basically save Simeon from offing himself in a Burger King kitchen with her overly generous funding. Letting her enthuse over a cupcake is nothing in comparison.
Simeon, for his part, only nibbles at a cookie as the show jitters slowly die down, leaving only a bundle of nerves behind as he checks the time. He’s suddenly struck with the thought that Edgeworth might not come – he hadn’t considered it possible until now.
Edgeworth had basically promised, right? He hadn’t responded to Simeon’s letter, but he did promise. Or, all but promise.
After what feels like an eternity, a large, bumbling oaf stumbles into the room, a Santa hat sitting crookedly on his big head.
“Hey, pal! I liked the show! Thanks for the VIP ticket!”
Simeon fights a scowl and gives Gumshoe a polite smile. “Thanks! Did you bring anyone with you?”
Gumshoe nods as he wanders to the serving table, picking up a paper plate. “Kay came too. She was somewhere behind me when I was looking for the green room.”
Simeon pauses. “What about Edgeworth?”
Gumshoe looks up from a tray of meatballs, and his eyebrows wiggle in the same way Simeon remembers him doing when he’s deep in thought. “Mr. Edgeworth? Was he supposed to come?”
Simeon feels his mouth twitch. “I sent him complimentary tickets, is all.”
“Oh.” Gumshoe shrugs and continues loading his plate. “He didn’t mention it at the office. Must’ve forgotten.”
Simeon feels his chest cave in just as Kay appears in the doorway. Her and Regina give each other big hugs, and the room fills with boisterous laughter. The sound pounds against Simeon’s skull, and the scent of overly expensive food floods his nose, food that he splurged on just for Edgeworth’s expensive tastes. He wants to flip the table and throw everything in the trash. He wants to grab the pencil behind Gumshoe’s ear and stab him for not bringing his boss. He wants everyone and everything gone.
His heart pounds, and he sits down at a fringe table alone, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with a napkin. He watches as some of his makeup comes off with it. He knows all at once what happened.
Edgeworth didn’t forget.
Edgeworth just didn’t want to come.
Nothing matters, Simeon realizes. Even now, no one cares about Simeon, least of all Edgeworth. That’s why Regina and Kay and Gumshoe are happily chatting away, why Ben and Maximilion have somehow made up and are probably talking about inappropriately aged girls together, why Kanis is a pile of bones in some abandoned graveyard, why Simeon’s bright red lipstick rubs off like Bronco’s blood.
Everyone has a place, Simeon knows.
His is simply nowhere.
After the room clears out and Simeon’s cleaning the tables alone, he closes his eyes at the sound of the silence piling around him. It sounds like the day Kanis died. It sounds like the day Simeon stepped out of the prison walls.
It sounds like his place in the world: nothing and nowhere.
When he gets back to the halfway house that night, he tosses and turns in bed, wondering what Edgeworth’s bed sheets would smell like wrapped around his neck.
* * *
Edgeworth gently folds the notebook paper back in on itself, tucking the bright red and green ticket within it. He slides it all back into the envelope and carefully places it on top of the rest of his correspondence from Simeon.
Then, he shuts his bedside drawer and turns the lock.
As he settles into bed, he thinks over all the responses he’d drafted, none of which he could stomach enough to have sent to post. What good would it be to send yet another letter on Christmas?
He closes his eyes and thinks of the most honest one, the words penned on a piece of stationery that’s long been crumbled in the bottom of a recycling bin.
This is your chance, Mr. Saint. This will be your fresh start, with a new audience that waits to adore you.
It shouldn’t include your jailer.
His heater hums, and for the first time in years, snow begins to fall.
He wonders if Simeon hates it just as much as he does.