The Clowns of Empathia

In a land where Clowns are the ones who feel emotions, even miles away, ribbons help

In the city of Empathia, nestled between whispering forests and a shimmering lake, emotions hung in the air like invisible threads, tangible only to a rare few. These were the Clowns, not jesters of jest but vessels of raw, unfiltered feeling. Their painted faces and vibrant costumes were not for amusement but a signal to the world: We feel you, deeply.


Clowns were born with a gift—or curse—of extreme emotional sensitivity. They could sense joy, grief, anger, or love radiating from others, even from miles away. A single tear shed in a distant alley could ripple through a Clown’s heart like a storm. To warn others of their ability, they adorned themselves in bold patterns, white faces, and exaggerated expressions—red noses for sorrow, wide smiles for joy, checkered suits for the chaos of mixed emotions. Their appearance was a courtesy, a way to say, I know what you feel before you speak.


Mira was one such Clown, her face painted with silver tears and a crown of bells that jingled with every step. She felt the city’s pulse stronger than most. At dawn, she’d walk Empathia’s cobblestone streets, her patchwork cloak trailing behind. A burst of warmth from a baker’s pride in his fresh loaves made her smile; a pang of loneliness from a widow’s window made her pause, bells trembling. She carried a satchel of colored ribbons, each hue tied to an emotion, which she’d leave at doorsteps to acknowledge the feelings she sensed—a blue ribbon for grief, a gold one for hope.


The people of Empathia revered and feared the Clowns. They were counselors, mediators, sometimes harbingers. When a Clown’s bells rang furiously, it meant a storm of rage or despair was brewing somewhere. Once, Mira’s bells screamed as she sprinted to the town square, arriving just in time to cradle a man who’d collapsed under the weight of unspoken guilt. Her presence, her painted face, told him he was seen. He wept, and she tied a gray ribbon around his wrist, whispering, “You’re not alone.”


But the Clowns paid a price. Their sensitivity left them raw, vulnerable. Mira often retreated to the lake’s edge, where the water’s calm dulled the city’s emotional roar. Other Clowns weren’t so lucky—some burned out, their minds overwhelmed by endless waves of others’ pain. The elders, with faces etched in permanent paint-like scars, taught young Clowns to focus, to breathe, to let emotions pass through like wind through branches.


One day, a shadow fell over Empathia. Mira felt it first—a cold, hollow ache, like a void swallowing joy. Her bells stayed silent, unnaturally so. Other Clowns gathered, their painted faces pale beneath the makeup. The source was a stranger, cloaked in gray, standing at the city’s edge. His emotions were a blank slate, unreadable, yet his presence drained the air of warmth. The Clowns, for the first time, felt blind.
Mira approached him, her heart pounding. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice a mix of fear and curiosity.


“I am Null,” he said, his voice flat. “I feel nothing. And soon, neither will you.”


Null was a wanderer, born without the gift of emotion, a rare anomaly. His presence numbed the Clowns’ senses, threatening to unravel their purpose. Panic rippled through Empathia—without the Clowns, who would sense the city’s hidden pain? Who would tie the ribbons?
Mira, trembling, refused to flee. She sat before Null, bells still, and closed her eyes. She reached not for his emotions but for the city’s. A child’s laughter, a lover’s longing, a merchant’s quiet pride—they flooded her, anchoring her. She began to hum, a soft melody, and tied a ribbon—multicolored, woven from every hue in her satchel—around Null’s wrist.


“You may feel nothing,” she said, “but we feel everything. Stay, and let us teach you.”


Null hesitated, his gray eyes flickering. For days, the Clowns surrounded him, sharing their ribbons, their songs, their painted tears. Slowly, faintly, a spark of something—curiosity, perhaps—stirred in him. The Clowns’ bells began to ring again, softer but alive.


Mira never learned if Null truly felt, but he stayed, a silent guardian of the Clowns who gave Empathia its heart. And Mira, bells jingling, continued her walks, her painted face a beacon of the city’s unspoken truths, tying ribbons to bind them all.