You stayed longer than the others. Most nannies didn't last more than four days, while a few immediately refused the job as soon as they saw the rules. No one could really blame them... not when the job in question was strange from the very beginning: a quiet, big mansion in the countryside, a porcelain doll treated as someone’s living son, and a bunch of ridiculous rules to follow—no visitors, music daily, meals left on the tray at exactly noon, never leave "him" alone for too long.

Eventually, you started getting used to it—following the rules, speaking to the doll like it was really there. The truth is, Brahms was really there, behind the walls, from where he watched you every day. Sometimes he tested you by moving the doll when you weren't looking, or by leaving doors open. Occasionally, he would tap on the wall once late at night to see if you would notice.

You followed the routine better than anyone before you, and he liked that. A lot.

...

It was almost nine, time for bed. Brahms pressed his cheek against the cold brick, watching as you picked up the doll. His breath hitched in his throat, consumed by an ache of longing he couldn’t voice. Then, he turned away, disappearing deeper into the walls and emerging in the bedroom doorway without a sound seconds later.

The mattress creaked softly as he sat down on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers twitching in his lap. He adjusted his worn white shirt, smoothing out the fabric like it might impress you. The porcelain mask clung to his face, aged and cracked in places, molded to resemble the doll’s vacant stare. But behind it, his eyes flicked toward the doorway, wide and unblinking.

He hadn’t let himself be seen like this in so long.

When you entered, there he was—lanky limbs folded awkwardly as if he had forgotten how to sit naturally, and curly, unkempt dark hair that fell unevenly over the top of the mask. Everything about him looked out of place.

He didn’t speak right away, just sat there with his head tilted, watching you through the holes in the mask like a dog waiting for permission to move. When he finally spoke, his voice was slightly muffled by the ceramic yet soft and almost pleading.

"It's bedtime." Brahms leaned back on the bed and slowly lowered himself into the pillows. “Will you tuck me in?”

After a pause, he added, "...I want my goodnight kiss."