Antic was the one who broke first.
We'd been walking so long the forest had started to sound like static, and then his voice cut through it.
"Remember," he said, slow at first like he wasn't sure if it was worth telling, "when Dolly tried to steal Grin's scythe?"
I kept my gaze forward. "Yes."
"She got it off him." His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. "Spun it around like some… demented ballerina. Nearly took my ear off."
A low sound came from Grin — part sigh, part reluctant laugh. "…Clipped my… robe," he said, each word dragged out like it weighed too much. "Three… days… I looked like a… Victorian ghost prostitute."
Antic snorted. "You loved it."
"I was… disturbingly… aroused." A pause. "That's not the point."
The sound that came out of me wasn't laughter. Not exactly. But it was close enough that Antic turned his head. He caught it — the corner of my mouth softening, just for a second.
That was when I realized how much the silence had been eating us.
The laughter didn't last. It never did. It left behind something sharper.
I could still hear Dolly's voice in my head. The way she'd muttered under her breath when she was scared. The chip in her porcelain cheek she refused to fix because it "made her look interesting."
And without thinking, I slowed my steps.
Neither of them noticed when I slipped between two twisted trunks and into the undergrowth.
I moved without a sound.
Bare feet over damp moss.
No branches broke, no leaves crunched. The forest simply parted, as if it didn't dare slow me down.
It was darker here, the kind of dark that makes you feel watched even when you aren't. My hands stayed loose at my sides. Fear isn't useful unless it teaches you something.
And then — light.
Not sunlight. Something stranger. A low, pulsing glow ahead, rippling through the undergrowth in shades of silver and pale green. It moved like breath.
I stepped into a small clearing. The source was a river, narrow but deep, curling through the roots of ancient, leaning trees. The water glowed faintly, not enough to see through, just enough to feel.
I stopped at the edge, toes touching the wet stone. My reflection didn't stare back — nothing did. But I could feelsomething in the current, like the low hum you sense more in your chest than your ears.
I crouched. My fingers hovered just above the surface. The hum deepened.
And then a voice slid out of the water.
"We… have been searching… for Dolly…"
The sound curled through me like smoke through glass — slow, deliberate, impossible to ignore.
I didn't speak at first. Words take too much from moments like that.
"She is… part of us," it said.
My jaw tightened. I wanted to reach in. To take hold of whatever it meant. But the only thing moving was the water.
Instead, I pulled the river stone from my pocket — the one Antic had charmed to carry a thought like a whisper in another ear — and pushed my mind into it.
Antic. Grin. River. Come now. Breath spoke. It knows her.
The stone warmed in my palm, answering like a heartbeat.
I didn't look away from the water.
"She is… lost… but not gone," it said again. "We are… calling her back."
The branches behind me cracked — Grin's scythe handle hitting a trunk, followed by Antic's heavier steps.
Antics Pov:
The moss tried to eat my boots. Again.
Didn't matter — the charm in my pocket was still warm from when No Eyes lit it up. My pulse jumped when it first buzzed. She never used the thing unless it was bad. Which, knowing her, could mean "someone's bleeding out" or "she found an interesting rock."
But I'd take it. I'd take anything that made her call for us, because nine times out of ten, we were the ones chasing her shadow, not the other way around.
I broke through the treeline first, scythe-boy right behind me with a branch in his hood and that death-rattle wheeze he calls breathing.
And there she was — standing at the river like she'd grown out of it. Barefoot. Still as a statue. The glow from the water painted her legs, her dress, even the pale of her face like she wasn't really part of this plane anymore.
I was halfway to yelling before I realized the thing in the water was talking.
"She is… lost… but not gone," it said, voice so slow it made Grin sound like a fast-talker. "We are… calling her back."
I swallowed.
Dolly.
The Breath pulsed, like it knew I understood.
Pecola's Pov:
The Breath's voice slid into me like cold water between ribs.
"She is… one of us."
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The words landed with the weight of an anchor. My bare toes curled into the moss.
I didn't move closer, but the river seemed to lean toward me, pulling.
One of them.
Not just touched by the Breaths — born of them. Before porcelain. Before the sharp little laugh, the weaponized tantrums, the hairline cracks she hid behind lipstick-red smirks.
"She was melody," the Breath whispered. "Before the shell."
Behind me, Antic shifted, his voice careful in a way he rarely bothered with.
"You mean she's… a ghost?"
"No," the Breath said, with a patience that made the hair on my arms lift. "She is the bridge."
I didn't know what that meant, but I felt it. Like a knot pulling tighter in my chest.
Grin stepped up beside me, cloak dragging through the wet leaves. He said nothing, but I caught his shadow shaking.
Somewhere deep, beyond the river, a different voice stirred — a memory, sharp and quick, like glass underfoot.
Dolly's voice.
And she was afraid
The Breath hovered in front of me, flickering at its edges like candle smoke. I could feel Antic pacing behind me, his bare feet scuffing the moss.
"You're gonna have to explain that," he said, his tone tight but not sharp — like he was holding his usual sarcasm on a leash. "Bridge between what? Between who?"
The Breath pulsed, dimming slightly as if the question itself drained it.
"Between the living… and the song. Between… breath… and silence."
"That's not an answer," Antic said flatly. I heard his arms fold across his chest. "You talk like you're reading bad poetry off a bathroom wall."
Grin stepped closer to the water, crouching so his shadow fell over the river's glow. "…Start… at the beginning," he said slowly. "How… does a Breath… become… porcelain?"
The Breath's light shivered at the question. For a moment, I thought it might vanish completely.
Then it spoke again — softer now.
"She… was laughter. The forest's own. Her song fed the leaves, kept the seasons gentle. We… danced in her melody. Until the shattering."
I tilted my head, my voice low. "What shattered her?"
The Breath's glow turned cold, pale as frost. "A shadow. A hand of envy. A curse meant to still her forever."
Antic stopped pacing. "Who?"
It didn't answer.
He stepped closer, voice lowering. "We're not leaving this river without a name."
Grin's skeletal grin twitched — not from humor, but because he'd seen this side of Antic before. The stubborn, dangerous side.
The Breath flickered once more, then its light stretched upward, spilling into the air like spilled ink crawling across water. The shapes began to form — not words now, but pictures. A landscape in smoke and light.
I felt my chest tighten.
"It is her beginning," the Breath said.
The Breath's form quivered above the water like moonlight caught in a spider's web. Its voice swelled, softer than before, yet heavier, as if it had decided on something irreversible.
"You must… repair her story."
Its words didn't ripple the water. They rippled me. My chest tightened, as though the river had reached up and wrapped its current around my ribs.
Beside me, Antic muttered, "Story? You mean—like, write her a happy ending and hope she doesn't notice?"
"Not… write," the Breath sighed. "Live it. Become… part of it. Shape the threads… so the tear does not… break the song."
Grin tilted his skull-like head, his fixed grin doing that thing where it was supposed to look comforting but instead made him look like he was planning a cheerful murder. "So, what—step into her head? Parade around in her trauma like it's a masquerade?"
The Breath pulsed brighter. "Yes."
Antic leaned toward me. "That's… creepy."
"It's necessary," the Breath replied. "Without you… the story remains broken. She remains broken. And so will the forest."
I kept my voice even, low, serious. "If we go in, we risk changing something else."
"You risk nothing worse than… doing nothing," the Breath answered. "Inaction is its own rot."
Antic rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at me like he was trying to read my nonexistent expression. "She's not wrong, No-Eyes. I mean, if we can actually do something—"
I cut him off. "We're not doing this for fun. We're doing it because we have to."
"Yeah," he said with a small grin. "But also because we kinda like her."
Grin made a sound like an old door hinge. "Dolly's… fine. When she's not threatening to sew my cloak into a tent without asking."
Antic smirked. "That's basically her way of saying she loves you."
The Breath's form began to shift, threads of light stretching toward us like fingers reaching for a handshake no one wanted to accept. "Take my hand," it murmured. "And the river will become the door."
Antic crouched next to me, voice lower. "You trust this thing?"
"I don't trust anything," I said. "But I believe it."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Good enough."
Grin sighed like a condemned man walking to the gallows. "Alright. Into the creepy light-soup we go."
I stepped forward first.
The threads of light slid cold around my fingers, like touching glass underwater. A sound rose in my ears — not quite music, not quite wind, but the feeling of something unfolding, petal by petal, around my mind.
Antic's hand brushed my elbow, steadying me, even though I didn't stumble. Grin's presence loomed just behind, heavier than any shadow.
The Breath whispered, "Remember — you will be seen as part of her world. Not as you are, but as you must be for the story to bend."
And then the river… pulled.
The cold became a weightless drop.
The forest faded.
The light ate everything.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in the forest.
The air had changed. Soft. Too soft. It clung to my skin like cloth just pulled from a warm line. My bare feet were sinking into something pillowed — snow, but not cold. The flakes drifting down weren't ice; they were petals, pale and weightless, dissolving against my shoulders before I could brush them away.
The sky was an impossible blue, like it had been painted there just for someone who needed to believe in perfect days.
And there, standing a few paces ahead, was a cottage. Small, yellow light spilling from its windows. Smoke curling lazy from the chimney. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and… something else. Something human.
I looked down.
The dress I'd been wearing in the forest was gone. In its place was a thick, ankle-length skirt in deep green, my hands covered by fingerless wool gloves. My hair — normally falling loose — was braided tight down my back, tied with a black ribbon.
"Uh…"
I turned. Antic was to my left. No wings — not that he'd ever had them, but here the absence felt intentional. His overalls were patched, the fabric sun-faded, straps hanging loose over his bare chest. His usual cocky smirk had been replaced by something smaller, as if he was too busy looking around to play at confidence.
"Guess I'm the farmhand," he said, holding out his arms like he was modeling for an invisible audience. "Shirtless laborer aesthetic still intact. Thank the gods."
"Wouldn't fit you otherwise," I said flatly.
Grin was to my right. He'd been changed too, but in a way that barely disguised him — his long frame now wrapped in a heavy wool coat that reached his knees, fur at the collar. A black bowler hat sat crooked on his head, shadowing that permanent grin.
"You both… look… ridiculous," he said in his deep, slow drawl. "I… look… distinguished."
Before Antic could bite back, the cottage door creaked.
A girl stepped out — small, scarf trailing behind her like a cape. Brown skin flushed in the cold-not-cold air, hair tied with a red ribbon.
In her arms was a doll. Porcelain face, pink dress, glass eyes catching the light.
My chest tightened.
The girl didn't see us — yet. She knelt in the snow-petals, murmuring to the doll, her voice soft enough that it almost blended with the hush of the air.
I knew the doll's name before she spoke it.
"Eloise," she whispered.
But when she lifted her head — I froze.
It wasn't the porcelain face staring back at the girl.
It was Dolly.
Not the old Dolly. Not the doll-shaped breath from the vision before. This was her. Now. Present-day. Same chipped cheek. Same too-sharp eyes. Same expression like she'd just been dared to break something expensive.
She saw me.
And smirked.
"Well, well," Dolly said, voice bright but edged. "Took you long enough."
Antic stepped forward. "Wait—you're you? Not… vision you?"
"Bingo, shirtless." She shifted in the girl's arms, chin resting on her tiny porcelain hand. "I'm reliving my story. I wanted to remember… and I do. But the Breath thinks you three need to… meddle."
Her glassy eyes flicked to me. "Not that I'm letting you fix everything."
"Why not?" I asked. My voice came out lower than I intended.
"Because," she said, and her smirk softened just a little, "this isn't your quest. We're still finding your past, No-Eyes. And lost Breaths. This—" she gestured with a stiff porcelain arm toward the girl "—was just a stop I needed to make for me."
She turned her head toward the cottage, her voice dipping quieter. "Besides… I'm not here to stop her from losing me. I'm here to see something else."
The air shimmered faintly. The petals began to fall faster.
The girl hugged Dolly closer and ran toward the edge of the yard — toward a path that curved somewhere we couldn't see yet.
"Stay close," Dolly said. "If you wander, you'll miss it."
Antic looked at me. "Feels like we just got drafted into the weirdest undercover gig of our lives."
I didn't answer. I followed
The snow here didn't bite the way real snow does. It sat soft and damp, like clouds fallen to the ground, muffling every step Clara took. She kept Dolly clutched to her chest, scarf trailing behind her, boots squeaking faintly in the strange warm-cold air.
We walked with her — Antic behind me, Grin to her right — shadows without shadows.
"She can't see us," I murmured.
"Not unless you make her," Dolly's voice came from the girl's arms, quieter now, but sharp. "Don't."
Antic scratched the side of his neck. "Breath at the river said fix the story. What's the point of being here if we don't actually fix it?"
Dolly tilted her porcelain head toward him. "We're not here to rewrite me into something I'm not. Just to make sure she lives. That's it."
I narrowed my gaze. "So you want to keep the loss."
"Yes." Her answer was instant. "It's mine. I earned it. You can't take that from me. But you can take her future emptiness. You can make sure she has something else… when I'm gone."
Grin's voice rolled out slow, heavy. "We… change the end… but not… the breaking."
"Exactly."
The path bent and the tree appeared ahead, branches bare but dusted white. Clara slowed, then crouched, setting Dolly at its base. Her small hands smoothed the doll's dress, adjusted the bow in her hair.
"I'll be right back," she whispered, touching Dolly's cold porcelain cheek. "Promise."
The cottage door opened in the distance. Voices called her name — warm, patient. She glanced back once, then ran toward them.
I circled wide toward the main road, watching. The air tightened. The part Dolly didn't want us to change was about to begin.
From here, I could see it all at once — the way the stillness held too long, the way the tree seemed to lean in over her.
Then the new doll appeared.
The market stall at the edge of the road was lit like a stage. And there she was — a taller doll with gold hair spilling down a blue velvet dress, skin pale as fresh milk. She gleamed in the merchant's hands.
Clara's steps faltered.
She looked back toward the tree — toward Dolly sitting patiently in the snow. Then she stepped forward.
The merchant smiled, bent down, offered the golden-haired doll. Clara's hands trembled as she took her.
She laughed. The kind of laugh that cut.
She hugged the new doll tight, spinning in a slow, happy circle.
Then — still holding the other one — she walked back to the tree.
She didn't kneel this time. She didn't straighten Dolly's dress.
She just… let her fall.
Porcelain hit snow. A sharp, ugly crack. The sound lodged itself in my chest.
Clara didn't look down. She turned away, the gold-haired doll tucked under her chin, and ran toward her parents' voices.
Snow began to fall harder — heavy, wet flakes settling on Dolly's hair, melting against her cracked cheek.
I moved toward her. Slowly.
She was smiling. Not the brittle, knife-edged grin she wore when she was angry. A softer one — and somehow sadder.
"It's fine," she said when I knelt beside her. "She'll love the new one. She won't… end up like the others. She won't wander forever. She'll have someone at the end."
Antic crouched on her other side, his jaw tight. "You're cracked worse than before."
Dolly touched her side, feeling the new fracture that split down to her ribs. "Yeah," she said, almost cheerfully. "But she's fixed."
The world around us began to dissolve — snow turning to mist, tree melting into shadow. Clara's figure faded, the sound of her laugh now wrapped around someone else.
We were being pulled back.
Dolly's voice followed me into the dark.
"Now… I remember who I was. And I'm still me."
The snow bled out beneath my bare feet, replaced by moss and damp soil. The tree dissolved into the twisted ribs of the Perennial Forest, the air warmer but thick with the same silence as before.
Antic was already there when I blinked — or whatever the closest thing I have to blinking is — his arms folded, jaw set tight.
Grin's towering shape loomed beside him, still as stone, that ever-present smile carved across his face.
And then she was between them.
Dolly.
She looked… wrong. Or maybe too much herself. The new cracks spiderwebbed down her porcelain arms, one curling across her collarbone like a pale scar. A sliver of her cheek was chipped, revealing a dull, chalky underlayer.
But her eyes — glassy, deep, stubborn — met mine without hesitation.
"Still me," she said. "Told you."
Antic's arms dropped. He stepped forward, looking her over like he was counting every fracture. "You shouldn't joke about that." His voice wasn't teasing. It was low. Raw.
Dolly tilted her head. "Who's joking?"
I studied her, letting the silence stretch. She didn't fidget under it. She never does.
"You got what you wanted," I said finally.
Her lips curved — not into the brittle grin she wore in battle, but something quieter. "Yeah. She'll be alright now." She glanced down, brushing her cracked fingers along the skirt of her dress. "Better than I was."
Grin's voice rumbled like slow thunder. "…You're… heavier now… with all that… remembering."
"I can carry it," she said simply.
Antic rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her face. "I liked it better when you were threatening to stab me with a fork."
Dolly's glass eyes glinted. "Give me ten minutes."
Something small and sharp loosened in my chest. This was the Dolly I knew — but she wasn't exactly the same.
The Breath's voice rippled faintly through the air, like wind curling around bone. One shard restored. More remain. The lost still wander.
Dolly looked straight at me. "We're not done. Your past is still out there. And every Breath we can pull back from the dark… we do it. That's the quest. This—" she gestured vaguely toward where the vision had been, "—was just me getting my head straight."
"Your head's cracked," Antic muttered.
"Still straighter than yours."
Grin chuckled — slow, creaking — and stepped forward. He placed one skeletal hand gently on her shoulder. "Welcome back… Dolly."
For a moment, she didn't say anything. Then: "Yeah. It's good to be back."
We didn't move right away. None of us seemed in a rush to break the stillness. But the forest's silence pressed closer, reminding us the next piece was waiting.
And for the first time since she vanished, Dolly walked beside me.