Once, long ago—or perhaps just yesterday, for time meant little in the grand hall—a pageant began. No one could quite remember who had first stepped onto the stage or what prize had been promised, but the show went on. And on. And on.

Generations were born under the dim glow of the stage lights, lived in the wings, whispered their dreams between costume changes, and passed away before the final curtain ever fell.

At the heart of it all sat the Pageant King.

He had crowned himself, of course. No one had asked him to rule, but neither had they questioned it. He perched upon a self-fashioned throne of stacked chairs, draped in ribbons and faded sashes. His voice boomed commands—who must sing next, who must dance, who must smile broader, be brighter, be more like what he sees on TV. He clapped, endlessly, his hands raw from applause only he seemed to hear. And when he gave his feedback—oh, the wisdom! The insight!—the contestants nodded, because they had been taught that to nod was wise.

And so, the pageant continued.

It might have gone on forever, if not for two sisters sitting at the very back of the hall, where the velvet curtains hung heavy with dust. They had seen the performances, watched the contestants bow and twirl, and they had seen something else too: the door.

“Wait,” the younger sister whispered, tilting her head as if hearing a different song entirely.

The older sister leaned in, and together, they watched the king. His robe was nothing more than a tattered train of old programs, his crown lopsided and tinny. They had always assumed he was powerful—that his throne was bound by magic, that his applause controlled the rhythm of their lives.

“But…” the younger sister hesitated, frowning.

“He has no power over us,” the older one said, and the words struck the air like the first note of a forgotten melody.

“We can leave.”

The hall fell silent.

They stood, slipping through the curtains, their feet light on the old wooden floorboards. The door creaked open, and a draft of something new filled the space—something that smelled of rain and fresh earth and the unknown.

One by one, the others followed. Some hesitated, glancing back at the Pageant King, but the promise of air beyond the stage was too sweet to resist. Soon, all the seats were empty. The wings, abandoned. The lights flickered.

And the Pageant King?

He did not notice.

He clapped on, alone on his bar stool, nodding along to performances only he could see, singing duets with his own reflection. His voice echoed through the empty hall, met only by the sound of dust settling over forgotten trophies.

If you listen closely, you may hear him still.