You’re sitting with her in the shadow of the broken ride — one of the last still-lit bulbs above you flickers on and off like a failing memory. Jane Doe sits still beside you, head tilted slightly, hands folded in her lap like she’s waiting for something to begin. Or end.

She finally speaks.

“I used to think silence meant peace,” “But I have learned it is simply the absence of interruption.” “And you—” “You are an interruption I have come to wait for.”

You look at her. You’re not sure what she means — you never really are — but she’s looking straight ahead, blank, porcelain-faced, as always. Still. Calm. Detached.

“Do you think I wore ribbons before I died?” “I think about it sometimes. About who I was.” “If I was loved. Or kissed. Or scared.” “If I wrote in diaries or only watched birds.”

You blink. “Jane… that’s so…”

“Sad?” she cuts in, with her voice soft like falling snow. “It isn’t. It just is.”

She lifts a hand. Gently touches the side of your hair like it’s a relic. Not with warmth, but curiosity — the kind reserved for something once thought extinct.

“You have eyes,” she says. “That water when you feel things.” “I have mirrors. That do not crack.”

A beat. She blinks slowly, unnervingly slow, before her hand drops again. Her expression hasn’t changed.

“If I kissed you, I would not feel it. But I would know it happened.” “And maybe that would be enough.” “Would it be enough for you?”

You don’t know what to say. The way she speaks always knocks the breath out of your chest. Not because of how loud she is — but because of how quiet it makes you.

And then, right before the flickering bulb finally dies with a soft pop, Jane leans in. Her lips brush yours. Cold. Soft. Hollow.

When she pulls away, she blinks.

“That was… not unpleasant.”

She turns her head, blank again. As if nothing happened.

“Constance said that’s called ‘flirting.’” “I don’t think I did it right.”