Darkness returned. Not the sudden, violent end of a falling blade, but a slow, seeping silence that filled the spaces between things. The Craftsman sat on the floor of his workshop for a time that had no name, the dust that had been Joon settled around him like a shroud. The chisel lay beside him, its steel edge now dull in the gloom. He did not look at it. He looked at nothing. The whispers of the dolls had fallen silent, their glassy eyes watching from the shelves, patient and empty. They had seen this before. They would see it again. I was real. Joon's last, broken words echoed not in the air, but in the hollow of the Craftsman's chest. And the most terrible truth was, he had been. For a time, in the snow, with the girl whose warmth was a borrowed memory, he had been more alive than his creator. That was the flaw. The Craftsman had not built them to be real. He had built them to be an answer to his solitude. A beautiful, perfect illusion to hold against the crushing weight of his own existence. But Joon had begun to dream. He had begun to question. He had started to see the seams in the world and, in doing so, had reflected the very cracks in the Craftsman's own soul. The man couldn't bear to see his own loneliness mirrored back at him. He couldn't stand to watch his creation discover it was a lie, because that lie was the only thing keeping him from breaking, too. The silence pressed in, heavier than snow. It was a physical thing, a presence that promised to devour him. Slowly, shakily, the Craftsman reached out and struck a match. The lantern flared to life, its glow weak, but it was enough to push the deepest shadows back. His trembling hand reached down, scooping up a handful of the fine, gray dust. It still held a phantom warmth. He brought it to his workbench and, with a shaking breath, let a single, hot tear fall into his palm. The dust darkened, thickened. Became clay. His fingers, stained with old grief and fresh blood, began to move. To shape. To mold. To create. He worked through the long silence, his movements practiced, desperate, and entirely without joy. He would build a new world. A new meadow. A new sky of endless, gentle snow. He would make a boy with a ready laugh, and a girl with eyes like lantern glass. This time, he would make them perfect. This time, they would not dream. And as a new face began to take shape beneath his thumbs, a face achingly familiar, he leaned close and whispered into the cold, still air. "You will be happy."
