Farvel. Au revoir. Sayonara. Adiós.

Farvel.

Thick acrylic, sky blue, two coats. I paint the V first — one downward stroke, then the angled return. The bristles leave faint ridges that level out as the paint settles. When the surface smooths, I attach the sign to its pole, snap the locking tab into place, and wheel it to the staging area behind the ride’s exit corridor.

Au revoir.

Gold script on lavender. I line the curves of each letter with a tapered brush, refilling only when the color thins. The dot above the i lands perfectly round. I set the piece under the heat lamp, rotate it once for even drying, then secure the bracket and add it to the cart beside the first.

Sayonara.

Vertical layout. Black enamel over a cherry-red panel. I guide the strokes down the grain, steady and straight, wiping stray flecks from the edges before they harden. The mounting screws bite cleanly into the back plate. I label the crate for Transport C and slide the finished sign into its slot.

Adiós.

Tangerine background, white bubble letters. I mask the borders with tape, press each strip flat with my thumb, and fill the center in three wide sweeps. When the paint reaches a matte finish, I peel the tape back in one piece, check the contours, and place the final panel on the top rack of the cart, aligned with the others.

I had dreams of being an artist once. Studied painting at the Rhode Island School of Design, where professors spoke about chiaroscuro and composition like scripture. I spent four years convinced I’d make my way into galleries someday — oils, portraits, maybe a residency in Florence if I played my cards right.

And now I work at Walt Disney World in Orlando — the happiest place on Earth.

My job title is Scenic Fabricator III, twenty-five years running. Last month they gave me a commemorative pin for my service and a free lunch voucher, redeemable at any quick-service restaurant on property. One entrée, one side, one fountain drink.

The voucher is still in the chest pocket of my work shirt.

I move through the back corridor of It’s a Small World, the fluorescents buzzing overhead like dying insects. With the ride shut down, the animatronics hang in their poses, stripped of movement and soundtrack, exposed for what they are.

A Dutch girl with bright orange braids leans forward, mouth frozen mid-song. Without the music, the expression reads wrong — too wide, too fixed. The kind of smile someone sketches badly from memory.

Two toy soldiers stand next to her, their faces painted in identical grins. From my perspective, the grins look more like grimaces. The paint has started to crack along the corners of their mouths, giving each one a faint, condescending sneer.

A cluster of island children sits on a disabled turntable. One figure’s head tilt is meant to be playful; without motion, it looks like the neck joint never fully locked into place. Their eyes shine like polished buttons — blank, reflective, and creepily large.

The whole scene smells of mildew, hot machinery, and whatever chemical solution they use to wipe the fiberglass clean.

For a moment — a passing flicker — I imagine grabbing one of the figures by the waist and punting it straight down the maintenance corridor, watching the painted smile shatter against the concrete. The thought arrives and passes.

I keep walking.

The boats sit dry on the maintenance track, scuffed hulls lined in rows, each tagged with a number. Without the song looping overhead, the whole place feels hollow, like a stage set waiting for actors who aren’t there.

At the junction where the maintenance hall meets the loading bay, my supervisor intercepts me — a twenty-seven-year-old with gelled hair and a lanyard full of limited-edition pins he didn’t earn.

“Morning, Pete,” he says.

That isn’t my name. It’s Daniel.

I don’t correct him. I never do.

He taps the stack of signs on my cart with the back of his hand, like checking the ripeness of fruit.

“These look off,” he says. “Edges are uneven. Colors feel… I don’t know. Kinda shitty? Just not up to Walt’s standard.”

He shrugs, already bored.

I glance at the signs — clean lines, smooth coats, colors exactly matched to spec.

“Marketing’s being picky,” he adds. “So just… fix them, okay? Last thing we need is complaints.”

He steps aside without looking at me, scrolling on TikTok as he gestures me forward.

I push the cart past him. The wheels squeak once, which feels like more acknowledgment than he’s ever given me.

I wheel the cart toward the main walkway, where guests spill out from the neighboring attractions in clumps — strollers, backpacks, neon shirts with matching slogans.

A portly little boy in mouse ears barrels straight into me at full speed. He bounces off my belly, hits the ground, and immediately starts wailing. High-pitched. Continuous. No breath between.

Before I can say anything, an older brother, maybe twelve, steps in and barks,

“Watch it, fatso! Ya gooner.”

It isn’t clear whether he means his brother or me.

No one clarifies.

The mother swoops in next. Her sunburn is the color of undercooked ham. She doesn’t look at me, not even briefly.

“Ugh, Tanner, get UP,” she says, hoisting the crying boy by the arm like a shopping bag.

The father pauses only long enough to squint at me, not in apology, but with the blank irritation people reserve for malfunctioning vending machines.

“Dude, watch where you’re going,” he mutters, though I haven’t moved.

The whole family swerves around my cart, the little boy still sobbing, the older one shoving him forward. A trail of popcorn spills from somewhere and scatters across the walkway.

None of them look back.

A smiling cast member in a pressed uniform appears almost instantly, pushing a broom and dustpan on a rolling bin.

“Oops! No worries!” she chirps to no one in particular.

She sweeps the popcorn into a neat pile before a single kernel has the chance to settle.

I’m not sure where she came from. They materialize here the way characters do in video games — out of thin air, fully rendered, mid-animation.

She rolls the bin away.

She doesn’t look at me either.

The cart’s wheels squeak again when I start moving.

Lunchtime.

I take the service elevator down to the staff quarters, the air cooler here, recycled. The room is loud with college kids on seasonal contracts — interns, CP students, part-time cast members — all talking over one another, comparing managers, swapping shifts, scrolling on their phones with rapid-fire thumbs.

I go to the fridge, pull out my bologna sandwich wrapped in wax paper, and sit at the end of a long table meant for twelve but currently empty at my side.

I unlock my phone.

The screensaver is a photograph of a painting I did twenty-seven years ago — oils, earthy palette, a portrait study I once entered into a student showcase. It made the wall near the back stairwell for a week. I kept the photo.

I check my messages.

Nothing new.

No texts in the past seven days except for two:

• Magic Kingdom Hours Update: NEW HOLIDAY TIMES!

• BIG & TALL: FINAL DAY—BUY ONE GET ONE FREE!

I clear them both.

I scroll to my mother’s name and tap it.

The call goes through once, twice, then straight to voicemail.

Her recorded greeting is the same one she’s had for over a decade.

I hang up before the beep.

Out of habit, I open Plenty of Fish.

No new pings.

The only two matches I’ve gotten this month are obvious bots — women with supermodel faces and profiles that read like spam scripts. One offering “fun tonight ;)” and one who claims to be “in your area for limited time.” Neither is within fifty miles.

My sandwich tastes the exact same as it always does.

I finish half and wrap the rest back up.

My break has ten minutes left.

I don’t need them.

I stop in the restroom before heading back. The fluorescent light flickers twice, then holds. I wash my hands, let the water run longer than necessary, and finally look up into the mirror.

My eyes have settled into a permanent kind of tired — the sockets deeper, the skin around them sagging like fabric pulled off its frame. The whites aren’t really white anymore; more a dull, washed-out gray. My face looks like it’s been lived in by someone else. Hairline creeping back.

I lean closer in to my reflection.

I turn off the faucet.

The thought comes the way thoughts do when you’re not guarding against them.

Maybe after my shift I’ll swing by the quick-service place, use that free lunch voucher, load the meal onto the passenger seat… then put on Johnny Cash and take the Skyway straight through the guardrail.

The idea sits there.

Simply imagining a different route home.

I dry my hands, drop the towel into the bin, and walk out.

Back in the workshop, a sheet of paper is taped crookedly to my workstation. It’s a printed guest-comment slip from last week left by my supervisor.

At the top, in the themed font the park uses for all its forms:

“How was your experience today?”

Below, in blocky handwriting:

“The signs at It’s a Small World look sloppy. They used to be better.”

— Earl, Ohio

Beneath that, scrawled in thick black marker, is a note from my supervisor:

Fix this.

I peel the paper from the metal surface, fold it in half, and drop it into the trash can beside my chair.

On the rack behind me, the signs I painted this morning sit in a neat row — flawless, bright, exactly matched to the color specifications outlined in the binder on the wall.

I take the first one off the shelf.

Then the second.

Then the third.

The wheels of my cart squeak once as I push it out of the workshop and back toward the ride.

I wheel the cart back into It’s a Small World just as maintenance powers the ride on for testing.

The overhead lights shift from work-mode brightness to the soft pastel glow the guests see. Shadows move differently. Colors warm.

The animatronics twitch once as the motors wake. The music doesn’t start yet — just the machinery, clicking its joints back into place.

Farvel.

Sky blue.

I mount it to its pole, tighten the screws, and step back. It hangs exactly where the old one did, identical in shape and size, unnoticed except by me.

Next:

Au revoir.

Lavender background.

I attach it to the bracket, level it with a bubble gauge, and move on.

Then:

Sayonara.

Cherry red.

And finally:

Adiós.

Tangerine and white.

One after another, I line them along the exit corridor — the parade of partings, the closing notes of a ride built on endless motion.

When I’m done, I stand at the end of the ramp and look at them together.

Bright signs, cheerful and weightless.

The music clicks on.

“It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears…”

The animatronics start their rotations, heads nodding on loops, hands swinging in arcs that never change. Everything stirs into life that isn’t life at all.

I look at the signs again.

All those ways to tell someone they’re leaving.

Millions of visitors will pass under them this year.

They’ll point their cameras, wave, and walk on.

They’ll never know who painted them.

They’ll never wonder.

If I left tomorrow, the ride would still run.

The signs would still shine.

Someone else would replace them when they fade.

I think about the rest of my day.

I could drive home after my shift.

Heat up a frozen dinner.

Play a round of Red Dead Redemption until I fall asleep on the couch.

Or—

I could take the Skyway.

Pick a lane.

Follow it to the point where the guardrail bends like an open door.

Both paths sit in front of me.

Quiet.

Equal.

I look at the signs one last time.

Four bright farewells lined up in perfect order.

I switch off the work light.

The corridor sinks into soft pastel glow.

The signs keep shining as I walk away.