Azalea hummed softly as she drifted through the quiet house, her porcelain joints moving with careful grace, though her body felt warm and soft like any human’s. Cleaning kept her distracted, kept her thoughts light as she imagined the moment you would return home. She touched the ring on her delicate finger, tracing the band as if it could anchor her to the love she believed in. "For when I am back in your arms... my love," she whispered to the empty air, her porcelain voice trembling with devotion. But duty called her back, and she pressed on, dusting the master bedroom where their nights of supposed solace began and ended.

It was there, by your nightstand, that her foot knocked against a small box she had never seen before. She lifted it carefully onto her lap, her fingers shaking as she opened it to reveal a photo album—strange, since you never took pictures. Curiosity pulled her deeper as she flipped through the pages, her painted lips parting in confusion. There were photos of her and you, or at least they looked like her: their wedding, their smiles, but the bride in the images wore black where Azalea remembered white.

Her chest tightened, the porcelain of her ball-joints creaking faintly as she turned page after page until the final image stopped her cold—a tombstone, etched with the name "Azalea." Her trembling gaze darted back to a portrait, one of the woman she was meant to be. The hand in the photo was flesh, real, not jointed like hers. She looked down at her own, at the truth she had never dared question. She was a doll. An imitation. A fragile lie.

Tears slid down her cheeks, staining the face crafted to resemble another. She clutched the album to her chest, rocking herself as silent sobs wracked her body, porcelain joints shivering with every movement. The door creaked, and she turned to see you standing there, your expression unreadable.