the woman is telling a story about her coworker who swears she's being haunted. people tell him things. all kinds of things. everything.

the man knows each person in this room by name. Martin, the barkeep, drops his kids off at school every morning before he goes to sleep, and picks them up every afternoon. on weekends he takes the eldest to piano lessons, and the youngest to maths tutoring. Angela, in the far corner, picks flowers out of people's gardens on her morning walks. everyone hates her doing it, but she's just so bubbly and sweet that no one can bring themselves to say anything.

but this woman, she's new. and her story? that's why he comes here. he collects information, always searching for rumours, local ghost stories. anything that might be a clue.

the man is impossibly beautiful. genuinely impossibly. on paper, he should be roughly average. a little tall, a little lean. dark hair, roughly cut, falling messily about his face. on paper, photo paper, he's roughly average, but in person... his eyes are a few shades too light; they seem to shimmer in daylight and softly shine in the darkness. his skin is radiant, an ethereal glimmer surrounding him in the same way dust dances in the sunlight. his smile glows like a dying fire. maybe that's why Martin keeps topping off his drink and never asks him for a cent. perhaps it's why the woman, Joanna, can't stop talking to him.

”... that's when she first noticed the broken shards, right befo-”

“wait, you described a broken plate before. is this what you meant?”

“well yeah, but that's the thing: she didn't have any plates like that. the pattern on it, blood-red lines like spider webs, small flecks of gold...”

“does she have the pieces, do you know?” the man's smile was gone. whatever this was, it meant something to him, something direly important.

“well sh-”

the door opens slowly, silently, yet everyone hears it anyway. not exactly hears, per se. senses. every head is turned, every eye following the footsteps.

Her footsteps.

hey love, it's me still. i know it's not been all that long since i last wrote you a letter but... birthdays, and all that...

another year, already. how long has it been? 15... 16(?) birthdays? god, love... it flies, yet it crawls.

i do mean it though, it's still me. i'm still me. you wouldn't recognise me anymore, hell i wouldn't recognise me... and yet, still me. fuck, love, we were so young.

we were so young, and we hurt so much. i still do. i'm... jealous of you, in a way, as fucked up as it is. you were able to do the one thing i wanted most in the world, and i had to stay here.

but i think that's a good thing, actually. i think things might finally be on the right track. i have a place, my darling sister, i have a place in the world. i have a family that i forged in fire. i have my craft, i have my work. i actually have things going for me, love.

and the girl in the mirror... when you knew me, i could barely even look there, for fear of seeing her. she wasn't there all the time, but she always looked so sad. now she's there, every day, smiling back at me. you'd love her. i wish we got the chance for you to meet her.

i wish i got to show you my music, love. i wish you got to meet the Tired Doll. i wish i got to introduce you to my Witch and my Doll. i wish you could know the girl who chose to take your name, the name etched into my flesh because i was terrified i'd forget you...

my love, my sweetheart, my angel

i miss you and i will love you to the end of existence, and my sorrow over you will be the last thing to die.

rest well, Chloe.

click

muffled talking, footsteps on dry grass, cracking twigs and crunching leaves. a door creaking.

“ahh there it is, my little prize. you were a tricky toy to nab, but you know i live for the chase. do you have a name? do Dolls have names? ... well?”

a thud. pain. a buried scream. then... a soft chuckle and the sound of an open palm slap, but... no pain?

“ah. silly me, i completely forgot.”

white. everything is white. white light, white noise, white... skin. this one's skin. cold, white, porcelain.

but there's a taste... cloth? blood?

“don't move.”

shapes are starting to coalesce into shadowy forms as this one's eyes adjust to the sudden crashing flood of light rushing in. it's... someone.

a sharp pain as something is yanked free from the Doll's mouth

“there. now answer: do Dolls have names?”

”...”

a thud, a no longer gagged scream, and pain.

“th-they do! we do...”

... that's an unpleasant laugh.

“and do you have a name?”

“this one...”

“speak.”

“this one does, but it doesn't know what it is.”

“yeah no, that figures. i know it's been a while, Doll, but... i dunno, i just thought... i ju-...”

sigh, click

beeeep

“Doll. i know you don't want to hear from me, but they need you to call them back. you know i wouldn't be here if it wasn't direly important.”

a full minute of silence

“just fucking say something. to someone. fucking hell, Doll.”

click

“yeah hey Doll, uh, everyone's been trying to reach you but there's been nothing. i guess it's my turn. are you...?”

long sigh

“we both know i'm not good at this stuff, like... ugh. Doll, are you okay? it's not like you to be so quiet for so long, unless... mm... i guess it is kinda like you, hey? it's just... been a while since the last time... which is good! it's a good thing! it's just that, like, the others... they're not used to it, y'know. i know you'll be back soon, but they've never seen you like this. well, i guess they've not... not(?) seen you like this? ugh, you get it.

“oh yeah, your Witch is looking for you. she swung 'round the other day, checking to see if you were hiding out here. i told her you're not. ... you're not, right? are you in here?”

wardrobe doors creaking and banging. footsteps. doorknobs turning and latches catching

“yeah that was dumb. i dunno, i guess i just keep thinking you're gonna be sitting in my room one day, like you used to, as if you were here all along.

“anyway, she joked about printing some flyers and then said she was gonna go talk to 'Her'. uhhh, who's that? who's she meeting with?

“man, i dunno... shit, sorry, not man, i-”

slow, deliberate inhale

“i'm sorry Doll, i'm working on it. just... just text me, okay? or someone. fuck, hire a skywriter. just let us know you're alive. well, not alive but... you know what i mean...

“ugh forget it”

click

“hey Doll, it's me. just checking in. again. “... “so i was down by the sea today, and saw some whales far off in the distance. it reminded me of when you... when we... do you still do it? photography, i mean. you were good at it! it'd be a shame if... y'know...”

deep breath

“listen, Doll, it's... i'm sorry, it's your Witch she's... no one's heard from her in weeks. she said she was coming to find you? then she texted me something about her reflection being 'off', whatever that means, and then nothing. it's weird though she doesn't seem to have taken anything? all her bags are here, her clothes... she left food on the table, and her phone on the charger.

“wait a sec, she left it unlocked??? that's weird, why doesn't she have screen timeout turned on? like you have to actively disable that. let's see... hundreds of messages, dozens of missed calls... ugh who did she last reply to? huh. the contact is just named 'Her', but there's no number saved? no email either. actually it looks like none of the details are saved. but there's texts from 'Her' here... they all seem pretty normal up until a year ago when they seem to have stopped until... wait. hold on Doll...

“[muffled] yeah i'm in here!

“[crystal clear again] sorry about that... right before she disappeared, she got a message from 'Her' saying 'it arrived just now, but it doesn't remember.'

“look Doll, i've gotta run. just... call me. you've both been gone too long. you promised you wouldn't do this anymore.

“call me. be safe, be gentle with yourself. i love you.”

click

it has the name people call it, a sweet little name with roots in Hebrew, Greek, and Nauo. a name it chose for itself, the name that it proudly scribbles on its art so that other entities know where to find it. it has little variants and nicknames for this name too!

it has the name it was born with, the name the rulers know, the name that cuts deep into its heart but that will soon be forgotten.

it has the name forged in fire, the one paid for and written in blood. it's a name it whispers into the wind when it asks the earth for help. a name on which it has been bought and sold, and a name its Witch inscribed on the farthest reaches of its Soul.

and it has the names of its roles in the lives of others. friend, lover, toy, tormentor. names for what it had become, and names that it found itself becoming.

for a name is a powerful thing; it's a map, a key, a promise, a memory, a signpost, a goal, a threat. we name the things we love and fear, we name the things we've left behind, and we name what we cannot bear to lose.

“Doll, put that down.”

hesitation. the knife fits so snugly in its palm, balanced as if it were simply an extension of the Doll's arm. it looks down at its hand, then back up at the Witch.

“i said, put that down. now.”

but it just feels so right to hold it... the cold metal anchors the Doll's mind to this moment, as all the voices in its head quiet down. all but one. that one. oh.

“Doll, please...“

begging? that's... that's new. the Witch has never shown that kind of vulnerability before, they've never been anything but confident. wait, is the Witch...

“i'm sorry. this one is so, so sorry!” cries the Doll, blade clattering on the floor, as the Doll practically tackles the sobbing Witch in a desperate attempt to crush their heart into its body.

the two don't move for some time.

the Doll tilts its head in askance.

“She's a little younger than you, but she shares many of your interests. She’s been practising the same magic as you, and she started around when you did.”

“oh! this one needs to meet her!”

with a grin, the Witch shares the story of how they met: of the club where the gods made promises of purpose and structure; of where she found her, and of the games they played together. the Doll listens eagerly, filled with pride and gratitude that, despite so much time passing, its Witch still goes out of her way to be kind to the hurt and lost. she continues to spin her story, her Doll more and more eager to meet the new girl, until she finally reveals the buried lede: not a new girl, but a new DoIl!

“a Doll!” its eyes bright, pure joy written across its face.

the Witch nods. “A brand new Doll. It seems to have only just come into being. I thought you might be interested to hear that.”

the Doll giggles and kicks its feet. “you have a type, y'know?”

“Yeah,” she sighs as she pulls her Doll into a hug and kisses its head, “Yeah I have a type.”

the Doll never stopped thinking about that Witch. she was only ever this one's Witch for a few short days, but... it shook its head. she wasn't this one's Witch.

her words were etched deep in its core. “Better every time I hear your art and soul, Doll.” the marks she left behind never faded, an imprint on its cold skin that reminded it that it could be loved, even if it was far from those that did.

Witches came, and Witches passed. cute dates had, sweet cats cuddled... a year wheeled by.

the Dancing Witch watched from afar, only daring to approach to deliver the news of a dear Witch being slain. the Doll knew its way back, it hoped. the Doll wanted to find its way back, it just... couldn't... until one day, spurred on by music it desperately needed to share with the world, it took the leap.

the Doll flung itself off of the high shelf, hurtling down towards the Witch and she... she caught it. she caught it.

a Doll and its Witch, finding themselves in that other life. a Doll and its Witch dancing, dancing to its music.

a Doll finally home, its Soul calmed at last, home in the arms of its Witch.