Desmond stopped directly before Mireya.
The name still lingered in the air since the moment he had spoken it.
"Mireya…"
For several seconds, he simply stood there.
Watching.
The woman looked so real beneath the dim candlelight—far too real to be called merely a doll.
Her hair was long and pale red, like copper touched by the cold light of a northern winter. Strands of it fell softly past her shoulders, some brushing against the chest of the dark green gown she wore.
Her forehead was smooth.
White and flawless like porcelain.
Her brows were thin and gently curved, framing closed eyelids. Her lashes were long and dark, casting faint shadows over the soft blush of her cheeks.
Her nose was straight and elegant—typical of women born in the cold lands of the North.
But the most captivating feature was her lips.
Full.
Soft.
Slightly parted, as if holding a secret that had been kept for far too long.
Mireya's skin carried a pale softness with a natural flush upon her cheeks, like a wild flower blooming through snow.
The dark green gown draped gracefully along the curves of her body. The fabric was old yet beautiful—its deep green resembling moss that clung to ancient stones.
Beneath the cloth, her figure appeared flawless.
Mireya's chest rose full beneath the fitted cut of the gown. The curve was unmistakable yet elegant, forming a line that would inevitably draw the gaze of any man who looked upon her.
Every breath Desmond took made his own chest feel heavier.
Her waist was slender.
Her hips balanced perfectly with the rest of her body.
Her proportions were so harmonious that she seemed less like a human woman and more like a sculpture of some forgotten goddess.
And from her body drifted a faint floral fragrance.
Soft.
Calming.
Yet powerful enough to awaken something far older within a man's blood.
Desmond stared at her for too long.
Then slowly, his hand rose.
But not to touch her.
His hand stopped in the air.
A small movement.
Hesitant.
As if he were trying to say something—yet no words came from his lips.
The gesture felt like a confession.
A surrender.
A quiet intention to end something that had been carried through generations for far too long.
Desmond's breathing began to grow heavy.
His chest rose and fell.
The air inside the room felt thick, pressing against his lungs.
Yet Mireya remained there.
Graceful.
Her head slightly bowed.
Her eyes closed.
And her lips… seemed to form the faintest smile.
A calming smile.
As though from within that silence, a whisper crept slowly into Desmond's mind.
["Rest… I am here…"]
["Release everything… Set yourself free…"]
["Just as those before you did…"]
Desmond did not know where the voice came from.
Yet his feet moved.
One small step.
Then another.
He approached slowly.
Until his face was nearly level with hers.
He tilted his head slightly.
Then slowly inhaled the scent of Mireya's hair beside her temple.
[SNIIFFFF...!!]
The floral fragrance filled his lungs.
Deep.
Deeper still.
[SNIIFFFF...!!]
As if the scent itself crept into his mind—opening doors he had kept locked for years.
A small fire began to stir within his chest.
His hand moved.
Slowly.
Until at last it closed around Mireya's fingers.
Their hands touched.
Cold.
Yet strangely alive.
Inside his mind, the voice returned.
["Yes… my son… touch me…"]
["Savor this moment…"]
Desmond's lips trembled.
He leaned closer.
Until at last his lips touched Mireya's.
Not a kiss.
Only contact.
Yet Desmond's hurried breath flowed warm between them.
Inside his head, the voice became clearer.
["Yes… my lovely son…"]
["We are one… complete this moment…"]
["Now…!"]
Suddenly—
Desmond jolted.
His eyes snapped open wide.
Like someone waking from a dream too deep to escape.
He stepped back.
Then another.
His gaze returned to Mireya's face.
For the last time.
The room fell silent.
Then with a sudden motion, Desmond pulled the heavy door of the old wooden cabinet.
The thick wood moved slowly.
Closing.
Cutting their gaze apart.
Until finally— THUD..!!
The heavy wood struck the cabinet frame, echoing through the Doll Room like a seal being closed by time itself.
Outside, Desmond stood frozen.
Slowly he pressed his forehead against the cold wood.
His breathing was heavy.
Broken.
"It's enough…"
His voice nearly cracked.
"I cannot carry this any longer."
Yet inside the room— The voice sounded different.
Heavier.
Older.
As though it had not been Desmond who spoke it.
For a moment— A vision of the past emerged.
A man lay weak in Mireya's arms.
His body cold.
His breath fading.
With a weary voice he whispered,
"It's enough…"
"I cannot carry this any longer."
Then his head fell limp.
And he died within the woman's embrace.
________________________________________
Back in the present—
Mireya's eyelids moved.
Slowly.
Her eyes opened just a little.
Her gaze lowered.
From the corner of her eye — a single tear fell.
Outside the room, Desmond had already begun to walk away.
His steps were heavy.
His back slightly bent.
As though something ancient had just been released from him— or perhaps
just awakened.
And behind that tightly sealed door…
something had finally stirred.
Not to live.
But to reclaim the last heir of the bloodline that once belonged to her.