Page 5 of Dolls of Ruin

I stood up, grabbing my tea, and headed back into the shop.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting at a small folding table in the middle of the shop floor, surrounded by four dolls who probably had better table manners than I did.

Sun and Moon sat side by side, their golden and silver tones gleaming under the shop lights. Nico, with his crooked grin, looked like he was already up to no good, and Fire glared at me with those molten orange eyes, like an introvert dragged to a crowded party without a single cat to hide behind.

“Don’t judge me,” I muttered, placing mismatched mugs and saucers in front of them. “This is for my sanity, not yours.”

Moon’s serene expression seemed to say otherwise like he was trying to gentle parent me with his eyes alone. But I ignored him and dug into my spaghetti.

“So, here’s the thing,” I said around a mouthful of noodles, pointing my fork at Sun. “I’m broke. Not, like, cute, starving-artist broke, but full-on ‘please don’t turn off my electricity’ broke.”

I took a sip of tea, glancing between the dolls. “You’d think owning a shop would be fun, right? Just thrifting all day, fixing up cute little treasures, living the dream. And don’t get me wrong—it is. But no one tells you about the part where your landlord raises rent because ‘commercial spaces are in high demand.’”

Sun stared back at me, unbothered.

“And you,” I said, turning to Moon. “Don’t even get me started on the customer who came in yesterday and said, ‘Oh, you’re still open? I thought you were one of those pop-up things.’ Like, ma’am, I’ve been here three years. Three.”

Moon didn’t respond, obviously, but something about his calm expression made me feel like he got it.

Nico, on the other hand, was clearly waiting for his turn. His stitched grin seemed wider, more knowing, and I narrowed my eyes.

“You’d probably side with the landlord, wouldn’t you?” I said, stabbing my fork in his direction. “You look like the type who’d double my rent just for kicks.”

His grin stayed exactly the same, but I shook my head anyway. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Fire’s molten cracks glinted faintly as I turned my attention to him.

“And you,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “would probably tell me to burn the shop down for insurance fraud. But I won’t, dang it! I like my shop.”

I shook my head, taking another sip of tea. “Not that I wouldn’t be tempted. Like a bad idea wrapped in a good sales pitch.”

I twirled the last of the spaghetti around my fork, staring at the dolls.

“Do you think it’s normal to vent to inanimate objects?” I asked, half to myself. “Probably not. But it’s not like anyone else is here to listen.”

The silence that followed was heavier this time, more noticeable now that I’d stopped talking. I set my fork down, staring at the tiny mugs and plates I’d so carefully arranged.

“This is pathetic,” I whispered.

The dolls, of course, didn’t answer. But something about their stillness made me feel seen anyway, and that was worse.

I cleaned up slowly, avoiding their gazes as I moved each doll back to the counter.

“Thanks for listening,” I said softly, brushing a stray thread from Nico’s shoulder before stepping away.

By the time I rolled up my sleeves and turned back to the rest of the lineup, the silence felt like an old coat—heavy, familiar, and hard to take off.

“All right,” I muttered, forcing a smile. “Break’s over. Let’s get back to it.”

Five

I paused mid-wipe,staring at the doll in my hands. His porcelain skin wasn’t the usual pristine white—it was a deep, shadowy gray, the kind of shade that seemed to absorb the light instead of reflecting it. Fine, web-like patterns stretched across his torso and neck, their silver threads gleaming faintly under the overhead lights, as though they’d been spun by something far more alive than a craftsman’s tool.

His face was breathtaking, a cruel blend of sharp edges and elegant curves. The dark hollows under his piercing crimson eyes gave him a predatory air, while his thin, almost imperceptible smirk felt like a challenge. A diamond-shaped emblem, etched into the center of his forehead, caught the light with a faint ruby glint that matched the veins threading through his skin.

“You’re not just watching me, are you?” I muttered, tilting his head to inspect the intricate details. His entire posture—his sharp jawline, the tilt of his lips, the gleam of his fangs—practically screamed smug satisfaction, like he knew every secret I’d ever tried to bury.

The heaviness in the room seemed to deepen as I worked, my fingers tracing the fine ridges of his carved webbing. “You’d hate this silence too,” I said softly, shaking my head.

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