The box, smaller than a loaf of day-old bread but heavier than a guilty conscience, gleamed under the dim light of Charles's squalid apartment. Curiosity, that relentless cat, finally clawed at him. He pried it open, and a wisp of shimmering gas, smelling vaguely of lemons and forgotten dreams, escaped. Before Charles could slam it shut, he inhaled.

He laughed. Not a polite chuckle, mind you, but a full-bodied, gut-busting, tear-inducing guffaw. He laughed until his ribs ached, until his landlady, Mrs. Finth, pounded on the door, threatening eviction and mentioning something about summoning the spirits of dead cats. The laughter subsided only with the dawn, leaving Charles feeling drained and vaguely ridiculous.

He tried to ditch the box, of course. He tossed it in the river, but it bobbed back like a persistent suitor. He buried it in the park, but it reappeared on his bedside table, as shiny and mocking as ever. Every morning, he’d wake to find that infernal box, and the cycle of giggles would begin anew.

Desperate, Charles consulted Old Man Fitzwilliam, the neighbourhood oracle, who smelled perpetually of mothballs and old regrets. Fitzwilliam, after peering at Charles with eyes that saw clear through him, cackled, a sound like rusty hinges opening. “Ah, the Laughing Box! Legend says Lord Featherbottom cursed it. No one can keep it, but no one is punished for stealing it. The curse is that the box has to be stolen, if it is not, the laughing gas will kill the owner.”

Charles saw the logic in it. The thing needed to be stolen. It was a societal laughingstock, a perpetual prank played on the world. He left the box on a park bench, under a sign that read “Free to a good home.” He watched from behind a tree as a gaggle of teenagers snatched it up, their laughter echoing through the park. The next morning, Charles woke up feeling lighter than air, the lingering scent of lemons a pleasant memory. He’d done his civic duty, redistributed the mirth, and, for the first time in weeks, he could face the day with a straight face and maybe, just maybe, a little stolen joy of his own.

Amanda, in her youth, was a wisp of a thing, a veritable sylph, if sylphs harboured ambitions of silver screen stardom. Her dreams were Technicolour epics, filled with sweeping romances, heartbreaking tragedies, and roles so characterful, they practically vibrated with life. She envisioned herself as the next Olivier, but with more mascara. There was, however, a fly in the ointment, a chink in her theatrical armour, and it came in the form of a cream puff.

Amanda adored pastries. More specifically, she worshipped them. A delicate eclair was to her as a sonnet to Shakespeare. Each bite was a tiny curtain call, each sugary crumb a standing ovation. Time, that ruthless stage manager, began to play his part. Amanda's waistline expanded, a slow, relentless expansion, mirroring the rising action of a particularly long play. Her once sharp features softened, blurring around the edges like a watercolour left in the rain. The leading roles, those glittering prizes, began to slip through her fingers like sand.

Yet, Amanda persevered. She saw herself still upon the stage, perhaps not as Juliet, but as Nurse, a role that, she argued, required a certain… amplitude. The silver screen beckoned less frequently, but character roles, the eccentric aunt, the gossiping neighbour, these were still within reach. Amanda, ever the pragmatist, adjusted her sights.