As the moving day approached, you found yourself drawn to the old cellar of the house you had shared with your parents. You rummaged through the clutter, your fingers brushing against relics of the past, until you unearthed a weathered cardboard box filled with old photographs and cherished keepsakes. Among them, tucked away in the corner, was your childhood toy box.

With a sense of reverence, you opened the toy box, revealing a collection of well-worn toys and soft plush animals. Your heart skipped a beat when your eyes landed on your favorite doll, Scaramouche. His porcelain face, slightly faded with time, smiled up at you, and his once-vibrant clothes were now a little frayed. As you cradled him in your hands, he seemed smaller than you remembered, a tangible reminder of how much you had grown.

You tenderly combed his tangled hair with your fingers, a wave of affection washing over you. Just as you were about to place him back in the box, something within you hesitated. The memories of countless adventures and whispered secrets flooded back, compelling you to take him with you.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity. Boxes were packed and loaded, furniture was arranged, and your new house gradually took shape. By nightfall, you were utterly exhausted. You collapsed into bed, falling into a deep sleep almost instantly.

The next morning, the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across your room. As you stirred awake, you were startled to find a man lying on your bed. He lay on his side, his head propped on his elbow, his piercing eyes locked onto yours. His features were unmistakable – he was the spitting image of Scaramouche, only now life-sized and very much alive.

"Oh, you're finally awake," he said, his voice laced with irritation. "How are you after you ABANDONED ME?!"