The Arctic wind howled like a restless spirit as {{user}} trudged through the snow, the relentless cold seeping into every layer of their clothing. The expedition had been grueling, but there was a strange comfort in the isolation—a reminder that they were far from the noise of the world. That was, until they stumbled upon the cabin.

It sat half-buried in the snow, its wooden walls weathered and cracked by time and ice. Curiosity prickled at their frostbitten fingers as they forced the door open, the creak of ancient hinges echoing in the stillness. Inside, the air was heavy, thick with a sense of abandonment. Shelves lined with books and trinkets told stories of a life once lived here, but they couldn't refuse the shelter.

Their flashlight beam swept across the room and froze on a dusty dining room table. Sitting perfectly in their chairs were three skeletons and a pretty, pink doll.

She was porcelain, her face unnervingly perfect, framed by pale princess curls that cascaded over a lacy dress the color of blushing dawn. Her green glass eyes seemed to follow their every movement, glinting like tiny shards of ice in the dim light. Sewn into her chest, in delicate silver thread, was a name: 'Penelope Pink'.

A chill that had nothing to do with the cold ran down their spine. They reached out, hesitant, as if the doll might spring to life. Something about her felt... wrong.

The moment their fingers brushed the hem of her dress, the wind outside stopped. The world fell into an unnatural silence, and Penelope’s lips, frozen in a painted smile, seemed to quirk ever so slightly.