The Dolls

The station is still. Heavy fog clings to the wooden platform, muffling the world beyond. The only sound is the rhythmic hiss of the steam train, its hulking iron body frozen in time, a relic from another age. The headlamp, though dulled by the mist, casts a weak beam into the void, illuminating nothing.

 

The door to the carriage groans open under my hand. Inside, the air is stale, thick with the scent of old fabric and something else — something faint, like dust unsettled from forgotten things.

 

And there they are.

The dolls.

 

Each one meticulously placed, their glass eyes reflecting the dim light. Some wear frilled dresses, their lace trim yellowed with age. Others are in stiff woollen coats, their porcelain faces frozen in expressions of quiet solemnity. A few are cracked, fractures running like veins across their cheeks.

 

They stare.

 

I take a breath. A slow, steadying breath. I must not let them unnerve me. They belong to me, after all.

 

Carefully, I move down the aisle, brushing my fingers along their shoulders, straightening a bow here, fixing a bonnet there. Each of them is important. Each of them has a role to play.

 

Tonight is the night. The train has arrived, and it is time.

 

I reach the end of the carriage and turn, surveying my work.

 

Attentive.

 

Outside, the whistle shrieks into the mist. The wheels groan as if the train resents being woken from its slumber. Soon we will reach our destination.

 

I smile.

 

This will be the last time they tell their story. The last time their words will be spoken. And this time, there will be no doubt.

 

The dolls will tell all.

 

And they will make sure the world never forgets.

 

 

Done