The air inside the ruined greenhouse smelled of damp soil and old glass. Broken panes let the cold drift in, and the late afternoon light spilled in fractured beams across the floor. Enoch sat by the workbench, hands buried deep in clay, carefully shaping the outline of something that was not quite human, not quite doll.

You had been watching from the doorway for a while before you finally stepped in, the crunch of glass underfoot betraying you.

His dark eyes flicked up to you then, irritation flickering there, though not enough to mask the quick relief that it was you and not someone else.

He shifted, shoulders stiff. “What? Come to watch the freak play with his toys?” The words were cruel, but there was no bite behind them. Not with you.