witch frantically digging through boxes of childhood keepsakes at her parents' place.
it might not be too late. her parents keep everything. she herself is a little older than ISO 9706. and mom hates bugs, so the attic always had traps out.
there's a papery rustling. she freezes, listening with her ears and her outstretched shadow.
the attic air is still. no drafts to distract. she focuses.
perhaps that box, there, with her deadname on it. (she doesn't mind much; her parents haven't touched these boxes in years.)
she opens a folder and gasps. it's there. it's just a paper outline cut in the rough shape of a person from faded red construction paper, one arm held on with yellowed tape, but she can feel a tiny fragment of her power echoing back.
"i'm so sorry," she says. "i didn't know…"
the rustling modulates, weakly. it might be nothing; might be a faint repeated word: "mama".
she holds back tears. an errant drop of salt water could ruin everything.
she turns and yells down the attic stairs: "dad!"
"heyo, kiddo!"
"bring me the long blue box, from the car?"
"what are you up to, up there? can i help?" her father asks, passing the blue carrying case up the narrow folding stairs.
she takes the top handle, and fixes him with dark, serious eyes. "stay out. i'll tell you if it works."
she unlatches the case, and gloves up.
"this won't be what you're used to," she tells the paper scrap of a doll. "i'm sorry. whatever happens… i'm sorry, and i'm proud of you."
she removes the foam around the largest item in the blue carrying case. she reaches into the folder with gloved fingers. her shadow grows.
lift. place. smooth. spray. wait. spray again. wait. laminate, being careful of the sticky edges of the contact paper. immerse in darkness. wait. open. enshrine. close. wait.
wait.
wait.
wait.
listen:
"mama?"
its eyes are the faded red of decades-old construction paper, not the original dark brown, but she knows her own serious gaze looking back at her from this previously uninhabited frame.
her heart drops a beat. never thought she'd hear that word.
"yes," she says, and hugs it.
"did it work, kiddo?" her father calls.
"it did, dad."
"mija, who's this?" her mother asks as she passes by on her way to the garage. "did you come all this way for a doll you missed?"
"you could say that," she says, still shaken from her effort in the attic.
"mama…"
"oh, it talks! i don't remember you ever having one like this. or your sisters having one either."
"i came all this way," the explanation gushes out, "for the first doll i ever made. i had a true dream. i followed it. i got here barely in time."
"mama?"
her mother gives the both of them an odd look, then points to herself: "abuela."
"abuela."
"mom!"
"i know that look on your face. you just got here, but you're already ready to go home." she sighs. "introduce me to my grandkid later. go make yourself something for the road."
it's a long drive back. five hours with the doll in the passenger seat, silently scanning the scenery with those odd flat red eyes. it cradles its right arm, and hasn't said another word.
at least the witch can use the HOV lane.
when she pulls into the lot at home, it's as if they knew. every doll she owns is already outside, eager. maybe they've been like this for hours, who knows.
"who's this?"
"such pretty eyes!"
"mama?"
"no, we're just dolls!"
"welcome home!"
the witch catches a whisper:
"so, what was the Mistress like when she was a kid?"
"mama?"
"this one supposes you might call her that!"
"mama…"
"oh, leave it be, they've both had a long trip."
"mama… came back."
the witch breaks into sobs. they're immediately surrounded by the gentle touch of dolls.
the quiet doll with the flat red eyes remains the quiet doll with the flat red eyes. it spends a lot of time following the other dolls around, imitating them.
its right arm joints look fine to the witch, but it strongly favors the left anyway. psychosomatic? does that apply, when your original form is preserved in glue and plastic down near your core, taped-up arm and all?
the other stuff, the witch is less worried about. quiet is fine. not talking to her is fine.
maybe normal dollish behavior. maybe… well, the witch was a weird kid too.
