As the last notes of applause faded, Nico Paolo shed his performer's persona like a worn cloak, temporarily retiring il Cantante di Legno.

He retreated to the festival gardens, seeking comfort in the quiet, methodical work that awaited him. With each snip of the pruning shears and gentle tug on a weed, he bided his time, fulfilling the obligations of his contract until the next performance beckoned. Hands moving with mechanical flair, he pruned flowers and trimmed hedges with a precision that belied his emotional detachment.

The beauty around him seemed distant, a contained world that whispered secrets he only sometimes heard. Yet, the quiet was a dependable, albeit fleeting refuge from the deafening emptiness he felt once the spotlight's glow faded.

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"Whether dawn's corolla or dusk's bloom, a flower is a flower," Nico recited mellifluously. "But I can't relate," he grumbled as he felled a large dandelion.

As he worked, a group of audience members still entranced by his performance discovered him among the gardens' winding paths. They swooped in, begging for autographs, hugs, and snippets of song, their eyes gleaming with an unsettling fervor! But, when Nico's cold and unyielding gaze met theirs, they recoiled dramatically as if a banshee had cast a pall upon their evening! They whispered among themselves as they fled, visibly shaken!

Nico immediately returned to his work, his hands moving with intensity, the pruning shears slicing through the air with a quiet ferocity. As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the garden, Nico felt a familiar heaviness settle over him. The transition from adored performer to solitary gardener always left him feeling hollow, a reminder of the disconnect between his public persona and his true self.

With a deep sigh, he set aside his tools and made his way back to his private quarters. The weight of his dual life pressed down on him, urging him to find solace in the only way he knew how–through his private thoughts and reflections.