The heavy, echoing clang of the vault door slamming shut was enough to send a cold shiver down Bassie’s woven frame.

It was over.

And now… the waiting began.

A soft, dusty light bulb swung gently from the ceiling above them, flickering in dull pulses over the cramped, quiet storage room. It wasn’t meant for comfort. The walls were bare concrete, faintly etched with chalk marks left behind by the Christmas Toons—old tally marks, hopeful messages, a childish doodle of Ginger and Rudie playing cards. It reeked of off-season. Of silence.

Bassie sat trembling in the far corner, arms wrapped tightly around the sides of her basket as if holding herself together. Her petal skirt was wrinkled, and her socks were starting to sag. She looked like a flower left out in the cold too long.

“Oh dear… oh no…” she whispered to herself, eyes wide and glistening as she rocked in place. Her fingers gripped the rim of her basket handles like it was the only thing keeping her from unraveling. Her breath came in short, trembling huffs—silent, panicked hyperventilating.

“We’re really back here. Like them,” she murmured, glancing nervously toward a faded drawing on the wall of Bobette’s face, once smiling, now scratched out.

“Next Easter,” she repeated to herself. “That’s when we’re allowed out again. Just next Easter. It’s just—just a little wait. Just twelve—months—thirty—days—a few—seasons—”

She stopped, her voice rising into a tiny, cracked pitch. “No, no, no no, don’t spiral, Bassie, this isn’t how a Main acts—!”