The audience expected laughter.
When the frail, hunched figure stepped into the spotlight — skin stretched over sharp bones, silver hair wild and untamed, wearing nothing but a tattered red dress — some whispered, others smirked, and a few shifted uncomfortably in their seats. This was America’s Got Talent All-Stars, a stage where dreams roared to life… but tonight, silence crept in like fog.
The old man moved slowly, each step deliberate, his bare feet making no sound against the polished floor. The spotlight clung to him like a shadow that refused to let go, illuminating every line carved into his weathered skin, every scar of time.
One of the judges leaned toward the microphone, hesitant:
“Sir… what are you going to perform for us tonight?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he raised his trembling hand, long fingers curling slightly, as though plucking something invisible from the air. The lights dimmed instantly, responding as if the entire theater itself was under his command. A faint hum echoed from nowhere, low and haunting, vibrating through the floor and into every heartbeat in the room.
Then… it began.
The air grew heavy. A strange wind, cold and sharp, moved through the audience despite the enclosed space. The curtains behind him rippled as if pulled by unseen hands. And just when confusion began to settle in, time slowed.
Someone dropped a program in the crowd, and the paper hung there mid-air, frozen. A woman gasped, but the sound stretched unnaturally, like distant thunder. The judges looked at one another in disbelief, their movements sluggish, their words trapped in invisible threads.
And the old man — no, the sorcerer — stood perfectly still, his deep-set eyes glowing faintly under the stage lights. He turned his head slowly, scanning the audience, and for the briefest moment, those who met his gaze swore they saw something impossible: themselves, aged and frail, staring back.
Suddenly, he clenched his fist.
The theater plunged into darkness.
Then, one by one, shards of crimson light appeared around him, swirling faster and faster until they became a storm, wrapping his fragile body in a cloak of fire and shadow. His red tattered dress seemed to come alive, threads floating like whispers of forgotten time.
The audience sat frozen — not out of fear, but reverence. No one moved. No one dared to breathe.
And just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
The lights returned. The room stilled. The sorcerer lowered his hand, his chest rising and falling softly, his breathing calm and steady, as though nothing had happened. The judges sat speechless, their microphones forgotten, their voices stolen by the enormity of what they had witnessed.
Without a word, the old man turned, walking slowly off the stage, his shadow stretching endlessly behind him.
There was no applause. There was no laughter. Only silence.
Because deep down, every soul in that theater knew one thing:
They hadn’t just seen a performance.
They had seen time itself obey.
