---

Anew Day,

Sunlight drifted into Telesphorus's workshop, washing it in copper tones. Dust motes danced and hung languidly in the air. The room had sat long stagnant, delicate tools glossed over in a light film of neglect and indifference.

The small shed had been locked for years, nestled into an overgrown garden that he had allowed to fall into disarray, hoping that someday it would swallow the dilapidated construct whole. To erase the memories of the thing he tediously repaired but never allowed himself to keep. His perfect Work.

He had found her, lay strewn in the street, discarded and tarnished. She gazed back at him when he leaned to inspect her, face showing no recognition or expression. Bending her delicate arms, wiping a thumb over her filthy cheek. Telephorus felt a hollow sorrow as he looked upon her ironically painted face, chipped under the layers, he could see she was weary. She was Broken.

He gathered her in his arms, where she laid silent and still as he carried her home.

Months bled into years within his warm and cozy shop. Every night he placed her gently on his workbench and filled her cracks with gold filigree, reassuringly whispering to her about how stunning her flaws were becoming. He patched and repaired her, with tender affection, making her whole again. But he wouldn't dare erase the evidence of her wear for it made her... unique.

He flexed and oiled her joints, making her limber. He taught her how to bend and yield, to sway with the gentle pressure put upon her. He tended to her hair, coifing the ringlets into little spirals and stray strands. He wiped the blush from her face and left her bare. When she was bare, she was beautiful.

As he tinkered, making the smallest of alterations, improvements, or reinforcements, he found himself wantonly adoring her. The curves of her calves as she sat on his bench, brushing in the softest of caresses against the outside of his thigh. How the corners of her lips began to curve upwards slightly from his tedious efforts and attention. How her head would turn under the tender pressure of his thumb as he admired his work. As he admired Her.

He wished to crush her to him, feeling her hard and unyielding. Hear the small creaking of her porcelain skin until she shattered and exploded against him. Pressing her shards into his soul, making it whole. He wanted to love her in the crudest ways, offsetting the tenderness in his heart for her existence. The thought sent delicious shivers down his spine.

He buried the feeling deep inside, along with other darker, sinister things. Why would a creator choose destruction over production, the wonder and life of a Complexor. "From idle hands" came thought unbidden.

He looked on as she began to learn to move on her own. Coming to life, finding her sentience, bending and posing, no longer needing his will to be alive. He sat quietly in the corner, on a stool, watching her twirl through his shop. Her passionate little pirouette billowing soft sheer fabric, a lilting voice finding its way from what was once a hollow cavity. He rebuilt this beautiful Doll, and brought her to life.

Telephorus sat in the shadows, choking on bitter pain, and his love for her lithe form. He watched as his golden doll drifted to the window and looked through into the garden and beyond. He watched her small body heave with a longing. She had outgrown the shop and become a prisoner in his comfortable, warm room. His heart shattered, the tinkling akin to what he imagined she would sound like under his rough touch.

That night, he watched her sleep. Memorizing the soft falls of her breath, how they sounded. How her ringlets fell over her closed eyes and tickled her cheeks. The small shifts in her body as she dreamed. He wondered in melancholy... did she ever dance in her dreams with him, twirling and dipping, gliding with abandon?

He reached out his hand and ran his fingers over hers in the purest of intent. He didn't wish to wake her or to possess her, he simply wanted to touch her. One last time. He tucked a strand of her hair delicately behind her ear. Looking down on her angelic face and feeling the raw power of her presence. He brushed lips against resting skin just enough to leave a small taste of her there. To have that sensation to hold to him.

He opened the door and propped it ajar, resolve only cracking as the night enveloped him, he couldn't help but glance back towards what was her home now, a sliver of light pushing into the oddly comforting shadows. He walked into the garden and vanished himself into a thicket of brush, where he sat down and wept silently.

Telephorus's heart ached and beat in his chest, screaming in muted agony as he waited. He watched the sun rise over the trees, washing the garden in yellows and pinks that were soft and fleshlike. They reminded him of her vibrance and newfound vitality, of her perfection.

He heard a soft rustle as she wandered from inside the shop, her bare feet making the most wretchedly gentle sound as they found themselves in the grass. He squeezed his eyes tight, hot tears careening down his cheeks, he couldn't watch her leave.

But he listened.

In the dead still of the garden he heard the lightest tinkling of ceramic, followed by the lyrical cadence of her newfound voice.

"Thank you." came words paired with the gentle rain of shards as she broke away from him, twirling into the empty spaces between his fingers.

When he opened his eyes again, the most beautiful thing he had ever made... was gone.

His perfect Doll danced free. Free of even herself.

---

---

I hope you have a fantastic day and look forward to your feedback regarding the story we have lovingly crafted from idea to submission to the chain. I hope you find it worthy and again look forward to your comments in the section below.

Much love, @Sammosk and Co. <3

---