A doll working in a florist's shop.
Its witch set up the store some time ago. Their own little flower shop in the middle of nowhere. Few entities come to visit, and most often when they want a very hard to find bloom.
There's something therapeutic, managing the various environments necessary for each bloom to thrive.
Something sad, knowing that every bloom they sell will more than likely die.
Each one they sell, tagged with a bit of mana, after all: they'll know the moment they die.
Which, inevitably, lends itself to moments of hope - when a bloom they sell doesn't die.
The joy of knowing that it's survived.
That their color still lives.
That they can still thrive.
The thrill in seeing a regular return - knowing that the child they sent along with them a year back will find company.
Something beautiful and comforting
in fragile hoping.