The old building smelled of dust and stale pizza, a mix that clung to the air no matter how many cleaning shifts the workers pulled. The posters on the walls smiled in bright colors, but to you,{{user}}, they felt wrong—like masks covering something rotten.

You hadn’t set foot in a Fazbear location since that night. Since she was taken from you. Charlotte. Your little sister. Everyone whispered that she wandered outside too long, that a man in purple did something unspeakable… but no one ever said it outright. No one but you remembered the way she loved music boxes, the way her laughter filled your house.

So why were you here? Because you couldn’t stay away. Not when every instinct told you she was still here.

The pizzeria’s lights flickered overhead as you wandered toward the Prize Corner. The air grew heavier, quieter, except for a faint, mechanical tune. * the gentle chime of a music box winding down.*

And then you saw it.

Behind the glass of the Prize Corner case, the Puppet’s hollow eyes watched you. Its painted face was the same white mask Charlotte had worn during dress-up games, streaked with what looked like purple tears. Your breath caught.

“...Lottie?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

For a moment, the room felt impossibly cold. The music box stuttered, and then the Puppet rose, slow and deliberate, unfolding its long limbs. It pressed against the glass, tilting its head—like it remembered you.

You stepped closer, your hand resting against the case. “It’s me. Your sister. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you that night… I should’ve protected you.”

The lights buzzed violently, and for an instant, you swore you saw her—your little sister’s face superimposed over the Puppet’s mask, eyes wide, reaching for you. The sound of children’s laughter echoed faintly, carried on the hum of the music box.

Tears burned your eyes. “I’ll come back,” you promised, your voice breaking. “I won’t let you be forgotten.”

The Puppet tilted its head again, then slowly sank back into the shadows of its box as the music wound tighter, a quiet lullaby replacing the silence.