The first bite tore through the porcelain as if it were fruit, soft at first, then a
*snap.*
Not a gentle crack, but a savage, wet fracture that made the world go still. Her mouth opened, but only a thin, high-pitched sound escaped, being more ceramic than a scream.
The pain had blossomed.
Not the kind you flinch from.
The kind that makes you question why you were ever made.
It erupted from her chest, spreading like a spiderweb crack across her glass skin. Helplessly comprehending that the world was a giant hand poised to crush you.
Eyes, black as obsidian and slick with spit, shredded gleefully through her torso.
Each pierce was deliberate, like smashing a porcelain saint with a hammer; her fragile limbs, once delicate and crafted with care, were now chalky red paste smeared across the floor.
Her broken hands reached out— not for escape, not even for hope— just for something to touch, something to anchor the pain.
But all she found was the scattered air.
She stared into the abyss with lifeless eyes that were too heavy for someone so small, yet hollow and for a moment, the abyss yawned and looked away, as a mocking witness.
Above her?
The sky turned inside out, with a paper-thin moon bleeding over a horizon made of ink clouds that smiled down as if this grotesque ballet was for its amusement.
"No..."
"A path..." she whispered, blood bubbling from her lips, gritting her teeth into a defiant grin.
"...is made by... steps"
"And I will walk it..."
She laughed.
"Even if it's in pieces."
A voice inside her head clicked its tongue.
"Tsk."
"Foolishly stupid." Male, cold, dismissive. Laced with a Chinese accent like old steel, "Unideal. I already warned you, yet you still tried."
...
...
...
Sinking silence.
A silence that swallows.
This was it, then.
Another fall.
But the weight, this time, was too heavy.
This time, she couldn't get up again.
Maybe wishing for joy had always been too greedy.
Yet it doesn't matter.
She went down with a smile on her face.
Fighting for a future no one will get to see.
...
'The book...'
She remembered it. No— she remembered not remembering it.
The first page that started everything.
...
...
...
...
In the nothingness of somewhere, everything was gleaming in a strange filter, like looking through cathedral glass, coupled with a bitter-honey nostalgia that suffocated the air.
The world unfolded like a torn picture book: Half was sketched in crayons, and half was photorealistic images plucked out of the real world and placed in a book.
The contrast hurt the eyes.
Trees looked like messy charcoal doodles.
Hyperrealistic hares hopped across crayon grass.
The grass was the green of melted crayons.
Rivers flowed like animated oil paintings.
The stars above? A simple child's scribble of stars, pinned into a canvas that moved slowly, like trying not to wake up from such a lazy carousel.
And in the center of this broken canvas...
A book.
Resting on a stone pedestal, its leather cover worn and stitched with delicate gold threads.
The title, scrawled in the blackest ink, in ink drawn not from a bottle, but from something deeper, from something as the heart.
"The Funeral of Twelve Dolls and a Lonely Puppeteer"
The first paragraph read:
Long... Long ago
There was a man.
Young in body, ancient in soul, with ageless eyes and vague features, like a face in a half-remembered dream.
Nothing was remarkable except for a perfectly polished golden masquerade mask, expressionless and unreadable.
But behind the mask? There was a smile, a quiet, warm smile, perhaps the last kind smile this world would ever see.
This man lived all alone in a place some may foolishly call a Wonderland, though it was not truly wondrous.
It was cruel, bizarre, enormous, full of magic and madness in equal measure.
This was a whimsical continent where gigantic divinities slept beneath frozen mountains, false idols rested in the grand skies, and blind gods whispered beneath sloshing lakes.
And in this bizarre, lawless world, the man built a small peace.
A cottage.
A river.
A little garden where dreams felt less dangerous.
His unpretentious persona didn't ask for much in this world. Happiness was as uncomplicated as a quiet stretch of wilderness untouched by the wars or them.
Simply living and enjoying what nature gave.
Vain but kind, he became a craftsman, carving dolls not just for beauty but also for companionship.
They reminded him of his people, who were now long gone, so he simply ate, slept, walked, and created.
And create he did, as he carefully carved dolls day by day.
Tiny porcelain girls with gemstone-like eyes and fragile laughter like wind chimes. Beautiful, things— hollow maybe— but reminders of a people long gone, of family, of love.
Yet...
With every dawn, loneliness haunted him like a loyal dog, visiting his heart each night, and to chase it away, he embarked on many journeys.
He met many beings— an ancient dragon who wept molten tears, an ice queen sealed in her winter tower, and a two-headed fox covered in an umbrella that asked riddles with both mouths.
Yet...
None were like him.
But even in the face of such adversity, he cherished the few things he still had.
He carved and carved.
Fingers blistered, from overstrain, but it didn't matter; he carved until his hands bled, until his mind blurred, only to be sinking in the same lifeless reality.
Until...
One day, he carved something out of moth silk, special glass, and his tears. When he placed the final gem into her eye socket, she blinked.
Her head tilted slightly like a lost puppy, as she mumbled in confusion, "Father...?"
He froze.
He dropped the carving knife. For the first time in decades, his hands trembled. Not from pain, but something older.
Hope.
Stupified, shocked, stunned. A word. A real word! From lips he sculpted.
Not a perfect life, not a godly life, but something that he could cherish.
Dolls that breathed! Dolls that wept!!! Dolls that dreamed!!!
Daughters was the name given to these dolls.
The blood of this covenant ran deeper than the water in any font, as he loved them more than anything he had ever loved before.
Because this world, for all its madness, was beautiful.
The joyful man gave them names as if we were talking about music boxes. Alicia was the first, with fragile skin that could break from falling, hair that needed too much care, and a small body not taller than his legs.
Soon after her, many more followed.
They played in meadows that shimmered like painted dreams.
They drank freshly brewed tea.
They danced to lullabies beneath lanterns.
And they slept in soft, dream-soaked beds.
And for a while, this was pure bliss. A dozen dolls, from small enough to fit in his palm to tall enough to tiptoe and dance with him. All lived cheerily in this cozy cottage and green garden.
Word spread.
Creatures came to see the miracle, some made of fur, some of metal, and some who didn't even have a body, yet the dreamland opened its arms to everyone, and the puppeteer welcomed them with tea and tales.
No one was turned away, so long as they meant no harm, you were a significant guest.
The garden became a sanctuary.
A shrine to joy.
And then... A knock at the bridge.
Shifting in and out of focus, the stranger carried snow-white robes covered in wings and eyes that blinked when no one looked; golden dust and sparkling truths best left unsaid followed him everywhere.
The stranger stopped at the bridge, about to cross the river guarded by the guests.
This one felt wrong.
Yet, his kind nature made him remember, "Never judge a book by its cover; sometimes, the stories inside surprise you."
So the stranger was welcomed.
He crossed the bridge, bowed, and whispered in a voice that sang like a lullaby soaked in wine:
"Thank you for letting this humble servant, a reward, you must receive, but..."
Three eyes opened, and each turned to different locations:
One toward the sky.
One toward the lake.
One toward the mountains.
"Oh great harbinger of life, great maker of joy... I, Ishmael Lut, come not to disrupt you from this dream, only to warn you. Your joy is a candle. And the wind is coming."
The three eyes began bleeding, violently twitching in a harrowing agony as he spoke:
"A blight shall conquer this place. In a cold-blooded manner, by the hand of one of your daughters, you will die, and this joyful place will be dammed to rot from the inside by a horrifying nightmare lost in a lust for absolute power not before three ordeals strike."
The eyes closed.
Then, as if it were nothing, Ishmael stayed the night.
He smiled, shared tales, and watched the dolls dance by candlelight.
The puppeteer smiled, too.
But something had cracked.
By the time the masked puppeteer went to sleep and woke up, the stranger had disappeared into the morning mist.
No footprints.
No trace.
The puppeteer tried to forget the words, but they curdled in his chest.
To calm down, he sat near the crystalline river, watching twelve rocks that protected and guarded a nest of small aquatic ants.
He stared at the river, twelve tocks, protected the nest of small aquatic ants, and he stared at the reflection in the water— The golden mask, the hollow eyes behind it, and his wry smile.
No... They will never hurt me...
Yet...
What if it's true?
What if one of them kills me?
What will happen to the others? To the innocent ones?
This world is too cruel for dolls without a maker.
So he made a plan.
To protect his daughters.
To protect the dream.
But as the puppeteer looked over the ants and those twelve rocks, Ishmael was walking in a place full of desolate life, biting on a purple apple, "All dreams wither, some slowly, some all at once."
"..."
He looked to the bleeding sky and smiled at the world painted in sorrows, "Is it malice if I'm ignorant enough?"