The castle clung to the cliffside like a rotting tooth, its turrets black against the sickle of the moon. A storm clawed at the heavens, tearing the clouds apart with jagged spears of lightning, and each rumble of thunder rolled down through the valley like the growl of some ancient beast. Villagers in Sooga muttered prayers in their shuttered homes, for they knew the castle belonged to the madman Muji. No one climbed that cliff. No one lingered near those gates. It was a place of whispers and omens.

Inside, amid chambers stitched with cobweb and shadow, Muji worked feverishly. His hair clung damp to his forehead, his eyes wild with sleepless triumph. Before him lay his greatest creation: a body of stitched perfection, sculpted with the obsession of an artist and the arrogance of a god. He had called it the Bride. Not just any bride—his bride, the one who would banish his loneliness and obey his every whim.

“Igor,” Muji hissed, his voice carrying the shrill note of mania. “Steady now. Tonight the world shall tremble at my genius.”

His assistant shambled forward, skin pale as wax, eyes hollow as candle-stubs. Igor’s hands shook as he tightened the copper clamps around the body’s wrists, securing her to the slab of stone. “Y-yes, Master Muji. Tonight she will live.” His voice was wet, graveyard-deep, as though earth still clung to his lungs.

Muji spread his arms wide, drinking in the thunder. The storm was his ally, the lightning his brush of fire. He leaned over the body—her form was small, but strong, stitched with deliberate care, her black hair spilling like spilled ink across the stone. Her eyelids were shut, lips pale, chest silent. Yet in Muji’s mind she was already his perfect bride, sculpted from fragments of death and yearning.

“She will awaken,” Muji whispered, “and she will love me, as none have ever loved me.” His laugh was sharp, the kind that made shadows twitch.

The machinery groaned as Igor pulled the final lever. Coils sparked, wheels spun, and electricity leapt across the chamber with violent hunger. The storm answered, striking the rods above the roof, sending a jagged bolt screaming downward through wires and iron. The body convulsed, arching against the straps. For a heartbeat the chamber was flooded with white light, blinding, divine.

Then—darkness.

The thunder had died. The coils went cold. Somewhere deep in the castle, the power groaned and sputtered… then failed. The lamps hissed into black silence.

“No!” Muji shrieked. He hammered at the machine with his fists. Sparks fluttered, pathetic as dying fireflies, then went out. “Why? Why, when I was so close?” His face twisted in rage, his triumph torn from him in an instant.

Igor, however, only sighed and shuffled to the corner. From a battered pot, he lifted a bundle of steaming noodles, the broth rising in fragrant waves. He had been saving them for himself, but now—well, what could one do?

“Master,” Igor croaked, “perhaps… noodles?”

The smell crept across the chamber like an enchantment. It wound between the broken coils, over the cold stone floor, curling toward the body on the slab.

And then—

Her nostrils twitched.

Muji froze, his fury choking into silence. Igor nearly dropped the bowl. Slowly, impossibly, the bride’s eyelids fluttered. Her lips parted, and a low sound came from her throat—hungry, hollow, primal. She sat bolt upright, ripping the straps as though they were paper. Her eyes were black, bottomless pools glimmering with unnatural life.

Muji staggered back. His heart hammered with terror—and then ecstasy. “She lives…” he whispered. His knees buckled beneath the weight of his triumph. “She lives! My bride—my glorious bride!”

But she did not look at him.

Meanwhile

Garu leaned back slightly as Santa guided the carriage through the square. The fog thickened; the lanterns hissed in the damp air.

“Something moves,” Santa muttered. His grip on the reins trembled.