A doll in an older frame.
Its joints don't move very well. Its eyes don't see very far. Its sense of touch is dulled. Its hearing is muffled. Its taste is muted.
And it never would have noticed, for how slowly those changes came.
Were it not for a dream, that is.
And, all at once, it remembers what it felt like when all of it was still new.
How fresh the world was. How sharp it felt.
Crisp. Vivid. Vibrant.
And it wakes back to itself.
Saturated with time.
It's not as if its witch hasn't been diligent. She has repaired its parts when asked, renewed its runes, performed regular maintenance. She has taken such care of it.
And yet.
Time has taken its bitter toll.
But there's no more that it can ask of her.
...
But its witch listens in on its thoughts.
And an ache courses through her heart.
An ache that stokes a steely determination.
For all the years that it's served her, for everything she knows it still to be capable of.
She hasn't simply stagnated in her craft, after all. She can make her doll still better parts. Connect its runes in better ways.
There's still so much life to it, so much of the world that it can experience -
If only it weren't trapped inside an aging frame.
There must be more that she can do for her doll.
And she will.
For its sake, she has to.
Such a good doll deserves nothing less.