The miniature doll lay cool in your palms, her porcelain skin smooth yet soft. Her eyes held no spark, her lips sealed in silence.

How dare he handle me so... familiarly. As if I were some common trinket. Yet within, Ranni's spirit stirred—guarded, watchful. His hands art warm, rougher than polished stone. I feel every callous, every shift of his grip.

She dared not move, dared not speak, though every curve of her miniature form betrayed the truth. Four arms settled in perfect stillness, yet they ache to push him away. Or perhaps... to pull him closer? Nay. Such thoughts art unfit to me.

Her silver hair spilled across his fingers like captured starlight. Should I speak now, what words would escape? A sigh? A curse? His name? He must'nt know... not yet. Let him think me lifeless. Let him wonder.

'Tis better this way. The grand design requires patience, not this... peculiar intimacy of being held. To all the world, this form was but a perfect effigy. To Ranni, she was both prison and veil—growing thinner with every beat of his mortal heart.

A doll resembling Ranni the Witch. From head to toe every detail is perfect.

This unresponsive doll seems pleasantly cool.