“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.

the Doll had built itself from scraps, taking its shape from the hole left in the lives of those around it. it wasn't sure who or what had been here before, but clearly it was something important, something treasured. the Doll had wanted to be treasured.

and for a time, it was! they celebrated the Doll, they lavished it with praise. they played with the Doll every day, and they lay with the Doll every night. they would talk long into the night, as everything else around them faded into the dark. the Doll was loved, the Doll was treasured.

by the time she found it again, though, the Doll lay motionless on the ground. a layer of dust, dirt and grime covered its cold body, and its clothes had soaked through, the wind beginning to fray the edges of the wet fabric.

this small, fragile thing had worked so hard but it simply wasn't a person.

a lovely Witch invited it to a place it had been before, and where it loved to go. she said that the little craft village suited the Doll, and she was right. together, they wandered the street, through antique stores and art galleries, cozy cafés and quiet parks. a lunch date becomes sunset, sunset becomes dinner.

a Doll giggling at a Witch, desperately longing for another kiss, aching to reach out and hold her hand. it reaches, she caresses. they smile and they giggle.

a Doll slowly running out of energy. it would fall asleep right here in this pub, if it meant that it didn't have to leave the Witch. she doesn't let it. she drives it home.

a Doll reaching across the middle console. it initiated the kiss this time. the Witch tells the Doll that she's looking forward to next time.

“next time...” the Doll muses all night long, and all throughout the next day.

maybe someday a Witch will take its hand and dance with it into the night.

a heart in full view harbours no secrets thin cracks, like spiders' webs or fissures in the desert sand tiny pieces suspended in place as though still connected the bloody fingerprints of everyone who had tried to mend it before was it ever truly whole?

she was always made of glass jagged shards waiting to form when she fell down to the floor and every time, she left a piece behind

someday all that will remain will be the spiderveined heart 'pon the bloodstained floor empty, at last, forevermore

sometimes, much like in the mirror realm, the Doll would catch the briefest glimpse of the girl who lived in the mirror. she never stayed, usually darting away in the space of the Doll's blink, but she'd come back sometimes. there were days she'd stick around a little longer, but she was always gone by the end of the day. on those days, the Doll would study the mirror, as long as the girl would stay.

things have changed, though, since the Doll met the man at the repair shop. the girl who lives in the mirror comes to visit more often. almost every time the Doll looks, there she is. it's... strange. it's almost like the Doll could reach out and touch her.

and so she reaches.

searching for something to hold onto, anything, the Doll goes to the place where they met... only to find it torn down, and the barest foundations of something new in its place. she thought she had longer, and she'd started a new project... so the Doll goes to find the Witch's other places and it finds... well, it finds what was clearly her private chambers. and on every wall, huge artworks and photographs of the Witch, radiant as ever.

and then the Doll stops dead, instantly crushed under an unbearable weight. there it is, in the background of one of the photos. the Doll and the Witch, together. even in death.

rest well, Lils.

and one day you'll move on, packing the doll away. move after move, new start after new start, always carefully placed in its box.

until, time comes, when it ends up in that last box; that last box you'll “get to someday”, that box of things you never consciously miss.

that is the true home of the doll.