The sun shines and the wind blows, carrying along the deep warmth of the former across the many rooftops of the city. The amber light of the rising sun, given its syrupy color because of the presence of natural dust and sands in the air that have been carried from distant lands, coats the world and all of the abundant life present upon its surface.

This includes Mirabelle, the sweet fairy.

She sits there, humming to herself pleasantly as she works by the window of the shoemaker’s shop, sewing together a ripped seam on a pair of fabric shoes.

Looking behind herself at the shelf, she smiles, seeing how much it has emptied out day by day. She’s working her way through all of the shoemaker’s old orders, and the backlog is catching up. The number of notes on the little board behind the front desk is decreasing.

Her promise to the man who had shown her so many things — a kind, good human — is close to being fulfilled.

She’s an honorable, honest, and diligent creature. She keeps her promises. She works hard. She makes people happy. She’s good.

Mirabelle smiles, returning to her work as she holds the human-needle in both of her arms, pushing the threaded thing through soft fabric, the ruby light coming in from beyond the old glass and painting the scene with a caramel glow.

Last night was just like the beetles she had to fight when she was reborn. These were just bigger beetles than last time.

It was a matter of self-defense, of life against life.

She’s sorry that they had to die, but the fact of the matter remains that — they had to die.

There was no other way.

And that’s not her fault in the least. She did what any animal in her situation would have done — kill to survive.

And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Mirabelle, the dangerously lovable fairy, works the day away.

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This is it.

Tonight is the night. She’s going to do it. There’s no going back from here. No matter what happens, after tonight, she’ll know that she can die an honest and fulfilled soul.

“— Grace! Grace!” shouts Mirabelle excitedly as the night falls and she blasts out of her tree like a firefly shooting toward the brightest star in the night.

The man on the bench looks her way in surprise, yelping and ducking down as she shoots over his head at full speed, missing by inches and then looping back around in a quick zooming maneuver through the trees behind the bench before clasping onto his shoulder from behind.

“— Grace!” she says a third time, clambering up his shirt as if she were climbing a very soft mountain.

He holds down a hand below her, catching her flailing legs, and lifts her into the air. The man blinks, lifting her to his face and blinking. “Hey, Marbles,” he says, a confused look on his face. He tilts his head. “You good?” asks the man, looking her over. He lifts a finger, holding it sideways against her forehead. “You’re glowing; don’t tell me you got my gunk?” he asks.

Whatever had been ailing Grace over the last few days has cleared away. The man is as healthy and vibrant as ever, and she’s grateful for that. He seems to have just had a cold.

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Mirabelle stands there, her fists clenched, her wings buzzing at full speed on her back, her body practicality vibrating as she looks at him, holding in her breath for a moment as she collects herself. With her cheeks puffed out, she grabs his finger with both hands and ‘lifts’ it up above her head.

Grace obliges, lifting his hand slightly.

Mirabelle, the honest fairy, looks at him and opens her mouth, all of the trapped breath escaping at once. “You’re my friend, and I like you, and I’m glad that you exist!” yells Mirabelle, saying such dangerous words despite the redness of her face, which seems to have stolen some of the sunglow of the sun that has now set.

Grace blinks and then drops his finger down again lower, obscuring her vision of him. “Hey!” barks Mirabelle, climbing up over it and looking at him. Grace stands there, a hand theatrically covering his own face that he has turned to the side.

“Oh, Marbles,” starts the man in a dramatic tone. “My heart can’t take it!” he says, covering his eyes with the back of his hand. “I think I’m about to…”

— Grace lifts the hand holding her into the air and dramatically falls onto the bench, clutching his heart. “- Eck,” he says, letting his body fall limp.

“Grace!” yells Mirabelle, scrambling down his hand and onto his chest, which she hits against with her fists. “Nooo~” screams Mirabelle, howling into the night, her voice carrying away into the heavens above.

The gentle fairy falls over herself, swooning as she crashes down, limp, onto the man’s chest.

“- Eck,” says Mirabelle, dying alongside him.

The two of them, dead, lay there for a while, as dead people do. It would be quite odd, honestly, if they did anything different.

After a minute, Mirabelle slowly opens one eye and peeks. “How long do we have to pretend to be dead, Grace?” she asks.

Grace opens one eye, looking down at her. “Depends,” starts the man. “How strong is your passion for the art of the theater?”

“What’s a theater?” asks Mirabelle.

Grace picks her up, laying sideways on the bench, and then holds her out in front of his face. “It’s a place where people pretend to be things they’re not,” he explains. “They act.”

“So… they play pretend?” asks Mirabelle.

Grace nods. “They do, and you can pay to watch them.”

Mirabelle stares for a while. “Pay?” she asks. “Like… with money?” Grace nods again. “Why would you pay to watch someone else play pretend?” asks Mirabelle. She points at herself. “I’d rather play pretend myself.”

Grace shrugs. “Well, it’s hard to explain,” he says. “But they’re really good at it. Like… really good.” Mirabelle ponders. “Anyway, you’re certainly in a mood tonight,” says Grace. “Where’s the sad, mopey Mirabelle I know, and what did you do with her?” he asks.

Mirabelle shakes her head, looking his way with a void expression. “She killed three people in a shady back room and had a life crisis," admits Mirabelle, knowing that she must confess her wrongs and that Grace is the one who must be her judge. "They're dead, Grace,” she looks down at her hands. "I killed them."

Grace breaks out in laughter, his emotion seemingly genuine as she notes that he is giving her a real laugh and not his fake, ‘I need to look charming and delightful now’ laugh. He has the latter as a tool in his communications workchest because he says ‘it looks better’, but she thinks that this one looks better. Although she’s not sure why he’s laughing, This is serious, isn’t it? She literally murdered three people and just confessed her crime to him. But he doesn’t seem so bothered.

“I like it,” says Grace after he finishes, wiping an eye. The man sits upright, pulling his hand close to his head. A finger prods her forehead. “The smile and humor are a good look on you, Marbles,” he says. “I hope you keep them.”

“It’s because of you!” she replies.

Grace clutches his heart, rising to his feet. “You’re going to break my soul, Mirabelle, you doll,” he says. “I actually can’t take this anymore. Come on,” says Grace, walking through the park with her.

“Huh?” asks Mirabelle. “Where are we going?” she asks. “Don’t you need to sleep?”

The man flicks his free hand over his hair, letting the long strands of it flow in the soft night wind as it comes their way — as if he had known the breeze was about to be here, as if he had coordinated with the forces of nature itself to align his movements with the gale. How does he do that?! “This kind of manic energy is special, Mirabelle,” explains Grace. “As if I’d let my friend have something like this and waste it by spending the night alone in a tree.”

“Hey!” barks Mirabelle. “It’s a really nice tree!” she argues. The good fairy squishes her hands together, fumbling with her fingers. “I wish I could just squish you and make you fit so you could see it.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Mirabelle,” replies Grace. “But for tonight, let me show you something,” he says, winking at her and making that clicking sound again. Mirabelle’s right foot feels like it wants to press itself up into her left shoulder as she cringes at the man’s disgusting confidence that she really likes. “I’m taking you to the night theater.”

“Really?!” she asks excitedly. “…But how…” she says after a moment, realizing that there’s nowhere for her to hide. She wants to meet the world soon, but maybe not just yet, not just tonight…

Grace’s coy smile, flashing in the moonlight like a string of pearls, lets her know that he has everything already thought out.

And that makes her feel good.

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“Aaah! I have been slain!” gasps the dying man, a wooden spear pressed through his chest. “By my own guard!”

The murderous guardsman pulls off his mask. “No! It was I!” they proclaim, turning to the audience and revealing themselves to be a woman. “Your childhood friend, whom you were often mean toward!”

Mirabelle gasps along with the crowd, holding her mouth closed in shock at the sudden betrayal, having taken in every detail of the story since it started.

The night theater is an outdoor theater in a different park that she’s flown over but never been into. There is a stonework stage with many seats of the same nature. Fledgling actors, acrobats, musicians, and all manner of creative performers come here at night to entertain and practice.

The dying man lifts a hand as he falls to the ground, reaching for his murderer. “But the truth is…” he says, croaking like a frog. “…that I was mean because… I always loved you…”

— He dies.

“Nooo~” screams the guardsman, falling to her knees and shouting at the sky above.

— All of the lights around the stage dim as the scene ends.

This is the best!

People all around the midnight theater clap and cheer, throwing coins onto the stage and Mirabelle, the supportive fairy, hiding inside Grace’s fantastically styled hair that she is looking out of, cheers along.

Life is good.

And maybe it always was?