We, The Doll.

Dust floats. Sun rays burn the wood the floor is made of. The wind howls and whistles, trying to remember how birds used to sing. The air is thick; its odor seems to mimic a long-forgotten feeling that once was common enough that it did not need a name.

There, laying on the ground, taking the rotting planks as its own stolen mattress, a motionless doll, gifted by this odd concept that is life, exhales. Its wooden face, arms, legs, and hands are covered by damaged clothing named skin.

Inside its limbs, a wild, crimson-tainted torrent flows freely from end to end without producing a single sound, yet makes the very drum of fate beat fiercely. Blood is the name given to this untamed river, Heart to the instrument of fate.

Spread across the cranium, brown strings covered in dust and, in a badly arranged way, directly piercing the scratched clothing covering it: hairs.Hairs they are, hairs they must be we’re unsure; we might have forgotten their appearance.

A faint hum accompanies every exhale, a single sustained note. It goes against the wind’s; it makes memories of the birds’ chants scream, a twisted note that defies any laws evolution settled.

A rebellion, we call it, a forced act against nature itself. A false promise of freedom, innovation they dared to name it.

A music box.

Carved into its throat, but never, ever its music to be danced to. A single metallic string, tightened in a precise way, held and protected by a sustaining sanity device: the so-called air-sealed glass, for the hum it produces to never go out of tune.

Placed between its vocal cords, a slight breath makes it produce a note. Sealed in the neck of the doll, impossible to remove, we are cursed to hear the box laugh at our fate every time we want to survive a little bit longer by simply breathing.

We figured it out! Human was the name given to the doll, although it does not sound right.

We’ll then call it the little girl. Yes, that is our name! Everybody keeps screaming it at us when we venture through the halls of the white towers,or when we stole those dry oats from this vendor at the white place! We’re the little girl!

And we’ll wake soon.