The workshop was quiet, eerily so. The usual hum of enchanted toys and rustling fabric had dulled, as if the room itself was holding its breath. Jason’s hand froze mid-stitch. He could feel it: a presence.

Not a child. Not a lost soul.

Something colder.

Older.

He crept down the aisle between his half-finished marionettes, eyes flicking to shadows. That’s when he saw you standing perfectly still near the puppet stage.

“Well, well,” he said, tilting his head with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“A little doll wandered into the wrong toy box. Tell me… do you break easy?”