The magician arrived ten minutes early, which was how he liked it. Early meant control. Early meant the table could be placed just so, the black cloth smoothed until it hung evenly on all sides, the top hat centered like a period at the end of a sentence. Early meant he could breathe.

The living room smelled like frosting and paper plates. Streamers drooped from the ceiling fan, which was turned off out of respect for balloons. A cardboard banner with glitter letters announced HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUCAS! in an optimistic arc that sagged slightly in the middle. Children sat cross-legged on the carpet in a loose semicircle, shoes kicked off wherever gravity had decided they should land. Parents lingered at the edges of the room, smiling the way adults do when they are relieved someone else is in charge of entertainment.

The magician—Elliot, according to the card taped to his case—knelt and began arranging his props. Deck of cards. Cups. A silk scarf folded into a perfect square. He checked each item with care that bordered on reverence, fingers lingering just long enough to reassure himself that everything was where it should be.

Everything was normal.

It was important to start believing that early.

“Okay, everyone,” he said, clapping his hands once. His voice carried well; years of practice had given it that calm, confident resonance. “If you can all sit with your hands in your laps and your eyes right here, we can begin.”

The children scooted closer. Someone giggled. A parent snapped a photo.

Elliot smiled. The smile stayed on his face a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were bracing it there.

He reached for the hat.

This was always the first trick. It had to be. Simple. Familiar. Grounding. He turned the hat upside down, gave it a gentle shake so everyone could see it was empty, then set it back on the table.

“Nothing inside,” he said. “Just a regular hat.”

A boy in the front row leaned forward. “That’s where the bunny goes.”

Elliot laughed softly. “Sometimes.”

Sometimes, he thought. Once.

He reached inside.

His fingers brushed fur.

There was a moment—barely a moment—where his shoulders tensed. Where something sharp and cold slid down his spine. Then he straightened, smooth as ever, and lifted a small white rabbit into the air.

The children gasped. Applause broke out immediately, uneven and enthusiastic.

“Ta-da!” Elliot said.

The rabbit blinked, nose twitching. Elliot set it gently into a small pen behind the table, where it settled as if it had always planned to be there.

Good, he told himself. That was expected. That was allowed.

He wiped his hands discreetly on his trousers and reached for the deck of cards.

“All right,” he said. “Who wants to help me with the next trick?”

A girl with a purple crown shot her hand into the air. Elliot handed her the deck, guiding her through the motions. Shuffle. Pick a card. Look at it. Don’t show anyone.

“Now,” Elliot said, “I’m going to find your card in a very magical way.”

He tapped the deck against the table, squinted theatrically, then leaned toward her ear.

“Is this your card?” he asked, reaching behind her ear with practiced flourish.

His fingers closed around something warm.

No.

He felt it before he saw it. The soft give of fur. The unmistakable weight.

He drew his hand back.

Another rabbit dangled gently from his grip, ears flopping.

“—oh,” he finished weakly.

The room erupted.

The girl squealed with delight. Parents laughed, clapping harder this time. Someone said, “That’s even better!”

Elliot stared at the rabbit for a heartbeat too long. Then he smiled again, wider now, a little strained at the corners.

“Of course,” he said. “Because what’s more magical than one rabbit?”

The children shouted, “Two!”

He placed the rabbit beside the first. The pen was beginning to feel smaller than he remembered.

He took a slow breath. The air tasted like sugar and latex balloons.

It’s fine, he told himself. It’s still fine.

He moved on quickly, before the thought could settle.

“Let’s try something different,” he said, pulling out three plastic cups and a ping-pong ball. “Keep your eyes on the ball.”

He performed the motions with crisp efficiency. Lift. Slide. Tap. Switch. He had done this trick thousands of times. Muscle memory carried him through, even as a low, familiar dread began to hum beneath his ribs.

He lifted the cup.

There was no ball.

There was a rabbit.

A slightly larger one this time, brown and indignant, blinking up at him as if equally surprised by the situation.

For a split second, Elliot considered screaming.

Instead, he bowed.

The applause was thunderous.

“This is the best magician ever,” a parent said, laughing openly now.

Elliot’s smile was starting to hurt.

“Thank you,” he said, a touch hoarse. “You’re too kind.”

He glanced behind him. Three rabbits now. They were remarkably calm about the whole affair, noses twitching in a lazy rhythm.

He could feel sweat at the base of his neck. He wiped his hands again, more noticeably this time.

“All right,” he said. “One more trick.”

The words came out before he could stop them. He immediately regretted it.

The children leaned in, anticipation bright on their faces.

Elliot hesitated, then reached for the silk scarf. It slid through his fingers like water.

“This is just a disappearing trick,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Very simple.”

He draped the scarf over his hand, murmured the familiar words, and pulled.

For one blessed half-second, there was nothing.

Relief flooded him so fast it made his knees weak.

Then the scarf twitched.

He closed his eyes.

When he lifted the fabric, a fourth rabbit sat there, gray this time, ears perked as if proud of itself.

The room went wild.

Elliot exhaled slowly and laughed, because at this point, what else was there to do?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, spreading his arms. “Give it up for… rabbits.”

The children cheered as if he had revealed the greatest secret in the world.

Elliot began herding the rabbits gently, improvising a finale he had never planned for. He spoke quickly, patter tumbling out in a practiced rhythm, keeping the energy high while his mind raced ahead, calculating logistics he had never wanted to consider.

When the applause finally died down and the parents began handing out cake, Elliot packed his props with shaking hands. The rabbits remained, docile and inexplicably content, nestled together like a living punchline.

The host approached, still smiling. “That was incredible,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Elliot managed a nod.

“Neither have I,” he said quietly.

As he finished packing his case, he glanced at the pen.

The rabbits looked back at him, unbothered.

He sighed.

“Well,” he muttered, already tired at the thought of the next party, “at least you’re consistent.”

And for the first time all afternoon, something like genuine laughter escaped him.