I woke up with splinters in my mouth.
Not metaphorically—actual wood.
Tiny, sharp, embedded between my teeth and gums. My lips were raw, and my cheeks ached like I'd been grinning in my sleep for hours. I ran to the mirror.
And there it was.
A cut.
Running up the corner of my mouth like a seam coming undone.
It didn't bleed. It whispered.
The sound was faint, like wind through reeds—but it carried meaning.
> "The smile must fit. We are shaping you."
I stumbled back from the mirror, hands trembling. My reflection lingered an extra second. I turned, heart pounding, eyes darting to every shadow in the room.
The silence felt thick.
Then something moved.
In the corner of the room—a shadow on the ceiling.
Not cast by anything.
It crawled.
A silhouette of a marionette, head twisted backward, limbs dragging as though held up by strings I couldn't see.
It moved across the ceiling toward the door—then vanished.
And in its place, on the floor below:
A single wooden tooth.
Smooth. Polished. Still wet with varnish.
I didn't pick it up.
But I heard it whisper.
> "Grin is hungry."
---
I needed answers. Real ones.
Not whispers. Not riddles.
So I went to the church.
Father Elric had been here since before I was born. He officiated half the town's funerals and baptized nearly everyone under 30. If anyone knew what was happening—or what had happened back then—it was him.
He was sweeping the front steps when I arrived.
He looked up. Eyes tired. Shoulders stooped.
And said, simply:
> "It's your turn now, isn't it?"
I froze.
> "What?"
He didn't repeat himself. Just ushered me inside.
The sanctuary was dark. Candles lined the walls. Dozens of them.
All burning red.
Not white. Not yellow.
Red wax. Dripping like blood.
He led me to the altar.
Behind it stood a statue I had never seen before.
Not Christ. Not any saint I recognized.
It was a man in a puppet-maker's apron.
Mouth sewn. Eyes missing. Hands outstretched, holding strings.
Dozens of them.
Dangling from above, vanishing into the rafters.
> "They called him the Smiling Maker," Elric said. "But we knew better."
He lit a single candle in front of it and whispered:
> "His joy is not our joy."
Then he looked at me.
> "Do you remember the covenant?"
> "What covenant?"
He sighed.
> "Your voice for the village. That was the deal. One every ten years. But you spoke. You remembered."
> "I was eight."
> "Children are easiest to bind. That's why Grin prefers them."
He leaned in close.
> "You broke the silence. So now he takes the smile back."
---
I left the church shaken.
Not just by what he said.
By what I saw.
As I turned back one last time at the entrance, I saw the statue move.
Its fingers twitching.
The strings swaying.
And for a split second, I swear I saw my puppet—the one from the crate—hanging just above the altar.
Mouth sewn. Eyes wide. Chest carved with the word:
> "TRAITOR."
---
I didn't go home.
I couldn't.
Every room felt like it breathed. Every shadow hummed with strings.
So I wandered.
Until I found myself standing before Benny Harper's old house.
Boarded up.
Rotting.
No one had lived there since '93.
But the boards had been torn loose.
And inside, candlelight flickered.
I stepped through.
Dust choked the air. The floor creaked with each step. But the candles—red again—lit a path up the stairs.
At the top, the door to Benny's childhood room stood open.
Inside, puppets lined the walls.
All children.
All with mouths sewn shut.
All staring at a crib in the center of the room.
There was something inside it.
Not a baby.
A mirror.
I stepped closer.
It was old. Cracked.
And inside, I didn't see myself.
I saw Benny.
Still eight years old.
But with wooden skin.
And a mouth sewn with red thread.
His eyes locked with mine.
And in my head, I heard:
> "You promised."
The strings tightened around my arms.
Around my throat.
> "You left me. You forgot. You let them smile with my voice."
The mirror shattered.
And in its place:
Another puppet.
My face.
But now with a mouth half sewn shut.
One side grinning.
The other weeping.