We, Their ruler.

A sweet smell of morning rain overwhelms our quarters.
The rays of the white sun slowly heat the white curtains; even the cold quartz tiles seem warm to its touch.
The wind howls and whistles, passing through the crystal roses on our desk; they chime harmonically, an improvised choir to chant our awakening.

There, resting on the silver mattress wrapped in sheets of silk, claiming their very fabric as its own, a sleeping doll, gifted by this beautiful concept that is life, exhales.

Its marble face, arms, legs, and hands are covered by this refined clothing named skin.
Inside its limbs, a calm, white-tainted river flows freely from end to end without producing a single sound, yet making the very drum of fate beat fiercely.
Blood was the name given to this calm stream, Heart to the instrument of fate.

Spread across the cranium, clean silver threads, unbearably straight, resting on the refined clothing covering it: hairs.
Hairs they are, hairs they’ve always been
we’re sure of it; never could we have forgotten their appearance.

A faint hum accompanies every exhale, a single sustained note.
It goes perfectly along the wind’s; it makes the roses vibrate even more, a magnificent note that rules over any laws evolution settled.
Around it, the room seems to tune and resonate, the curtains to float and bend around its will.

A doctrine, we call it.
A will to morph nature to ours.
A testimony of freedom, innovation, we proudly named it.

A music box.

Modeled around the throat of the sleeping doll, its music makes the furniture dance.
Three metallic strings: one made of silver, one out of quartz, the last woven from gold.
Tightened in a precise way, held and protected by a tainted, air-sealed glass, for the melody it produces to never go out of tune.

Displayed along its vocal cords, a controlled breath makes it produce a chord.
Interlocked in the neck of the doll, irrelevant for us to remove, we are blessed to hear the box guide our fate every time we want it to sing.

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

We’ll then call it Queen.
Yes, that is our name!
Everybody keeps praising it when we walk through the corridors of the white palace,
or when we ordered our pale guardians to punish this vendor for giving his dry oats to a poor girl wearing a red dress at the white place!

We’re the Queen!
And we’ll wake soon.