Lucien looked up the moment the door opened.
The man had come back.
Alone.
That was enough.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Rain tapped softly against the glass, and water dripped from the man's coat onto the wooden floor.
He looked worse than before.
Paler. Exhausted. Like he hadn't slept at all.
"I'm sorry."
The words came out awkwardly, like he wasn't even sure how to start.
Lucien didn't interrupt. He just watched.
The man swallowed, forcing himself to continue.
"When we came here before… I didn't take you seriously."
A pause.
"I thought you were just… saying things."
He shook his head slightly.
"I was wrong."
Lucien gestured toward the chair across from him.
"Sit."
The man didn't argue. He dropped into the chair like his legs might give out if he stayed standing any longer.
Lucien poured some tea and slid the cup across the counter.
"Drink. Then talk."
The man stared at it for a second, like he hadn't expected that.
Then he picked it up. His hands weren't steady.
He took a small sip.
Just enough.
"You already know… don't you?" he asked quietly.
Lucien gave a small nod.
Nothing dramatic. Just simple acknowledgment.
That seemed to break something loose.
The man let out a slow breath.
"When I got home," he began, "there was a package outside my door."
Lucien leaned back slightly, listening.
"No name. No return address. Just… a box."
"I opened it."
He paused.
"…There was a doll inside."
Lucien's expression didn't change, but his attention sharpened.
"At first, I didn't think much of it," the man continued. "It was creepy, sure, but… just a doll."
His grip tightened around the cup.
"But when I left for a while… and came back…"
His voice dropped.
"My wife was dead."
Silence filled the shop.
Heavy. Still.
Lucien lowered his eyes slightly.
"…I see."
"I need to know what happened," the man said, his voice rough now. "I need to understand why."
He looked up, straight at Lucien.
"And I think you can help me."
Lucien studied him for a moment.
Despite everything, the man was still thinking clearly. Still holding himself together.
Not many people could do that.
"Before she died," the man added slowly, "she mentioned something."
Lucien's gaze shifted slightly.
"A song," he said.
The man froze.
"…Yeah."
Lucien didn't look surprised.
"Say it."
The man hesitated. You could see it—he didn't want to.
But he did anyway.
"There was a woman…"
"…no children… only dolls…"
"If you see her… don't scream…"
His voice faltered.
"…or she'll take your tongue."
He went quiet after that.
Lucien leaned back slightly.
"A nursery rhyme," he said.
The man let out a hollow breath.
"In my hometown… people used to say dolls bring bad luck."
He gave a weak, humorless smile.
"I always thought it was just a story."
Lucien stood up.
"We're going to your apartment."
The man blinked. "Right now?"
"Yes."
No explanation.
No hesitation.
And for some reason, that made it easier to trust him.
The drive was quiet at first.
Rain hit the windshield in steady waves, the wipers barely keeping up. Streetlights blurred into streaks as the car moved through the city.
After a while, the man started talking again.
Not because Lucien asked.
Because he couldn't sit in silence.
He described everything—the package, the doll, the moment he came home.
"The lights were off," he said. "But I heard her voice."
Lucien's eyes opened slightly.
"Her voice?"
"Yeah… she called me from the bedroom."
Lucien turned his head just a little.
"…And when you opened the door?"
The man swallowed.
"She was already dead."
Lucien didn't respond immediately.
Then, calmly—
"Think about that."
The man frowned. "What do you mean?"
Lucien looked at him.
"If she was already dead… then who was speaking?"
The question landed hard.
The man's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"…No."
Lucien didn't look away.
"It needed you to come closer," he said. "To lower your guard."
"Why?" the man asked, his voice quieter now.
Lucien's answer was simple.
"To make you react."
A pause.
"To make you scream."
The car went silent again.
The man didn't say anything after that.
The apartment building looked the same.
But it didn't feel the same.
Police tape still hung near the entrance, loose and half-forgotten.
Inside, the air felt… off.
Not obvious.
But enough to notice.
The man unlocked the door.
His hand shook slightly.
The moment it opened—
That smell hit.
Faint now.
But still there.
Blood.
Lucien stepped inside without hesitation.
His eyes moved slowly across the room.
Dried stains on the floor.
Furniture slightly out of place.
The kind of silence that lingers after something terrible has already happened.
Then—
He saw it.
In the corner.
A doll sat on a chair.
Still.
Quiet.
Watching.
The man followed his gaze.
"That's it," he said softly.
Lucien walked over.
Slow steps. No rush.
There was something about it.
Not visible.
But present.
He reached out—
And picked it up.
The moment his fingers touched it—
Cold.
Sharp.
Unnatural.
It crept up his arm like something alive.
Lucien didn't react.
"…So this is it."
Behind him, the man asked quietly,
"What do we do with it?"
Lucien glanced toward the kitchen.
"Burn it."
The man blinked. "Just like that?"
Lucien didn't answer.
He was already walking.
He turned on the gas.
The flame came to life with a soft click.
And then—
The doll moved.
Its eyes shifted.
Slowly.
Locking onto him.
The man's breath caught.
"Lucien—"
But something was wrong.
His voice sounded too loud.
Too clear.
Because everything else—
Was fading.
The rain.
The wind.
Even the faint hum of electricity—
All of it disappeared.
Like someone turned the world down to zero.
Silence.
Heavy.
Absolute.
The man's heartbeat slammed in his ears.
And deep down—
He understood.
Something was here.
Lucien stood in front of the flame.
Still holding the doll.
Completely calm.
Like nothing had changed.
Or worse—
Like he knew exactly what was happening.
And didn't care.