Rain misted the town that morning, soft enough to blur windows and silver the roofs. Clara walked beside Mortimer, her shoes damp from puddles, her mind turning over the memory of the baker's flames. She wanted to ask him questions—why her, why now—but Mortimer's paper-rustling cloak and cracked mask gave little away.
Instead, he stopped in front of a narrow house with peeling paint. On the porch sat a girl no older than Clara, her dark braids tied neatly with fading ribbons. At her side rested a dollhouse nearly as tall as her knees.
"That one," Mortimer whispered. His voice carried like a draft under a door. "Her tears have found a home."
Clara tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
Mortimer's mask gleamed faintly in the rain. "She has buried her sorrow. The dollhouse cries for her."
The girl's face brightened when she saw Clara. "Do you want to play?" she asked. Her cheeriness sounded rehearsed, as if she had practiced it in the mirror.
Clara glanced at Mortimer—unmoving, unreadable—and then nodded.
The girl introduced herself as Liza and lifted the hinged roof of the dollhouse. Inside were four rooms: a parlor with faded wallpaper, a dining room with a tiny wooden table, two bedrooms upstairs with stiff little beds. Dolls stood where she placed them, stiff in their painted smiles.
But Clara heard something else beneath the patter of rain: a low, muffled sobbing.
Her stomach tightened. "Liza… do you hear that?"
Liza busied herself with arranging the dolls. "They're having supper," she said brightly. "Bread and stew." Her hands trembled slightly.
Clara leaned closer. The wallpaper inside the parlor looked wet. A bead of water slid down the miniature wall like a tear. Another followed, then another, until the tiny rug was soaked.
"The dollhouse is crying," Clara whispered.
Liza's smile faltered, but she kept pushing the dolls into their chairs. "It does that sometimes," she murmured.
The sobbing grew louder, echoing from the miniature windows. Tiny chairs toppled as if shaken by invisible hands. Dolls collapsed face-down. A crack split the dining-room wall, and more water poured through, dripping onto the porch.
Mortimer spoke softly, though his voice filled Clara's mind. "She will not cry. So the house weeps for her."
Clara turned. "Why won't she?"
"Because she was told not to."
The dollhouse shuddered, its windows rattling. Water streamed out, soaking Clara's shoes. Liza slammed the roof shut, but the sobbing only grew harsher, like a storm trapped inside.
"Stop it!" Liza cried, covering her ears. "Stop, stop!"
Clara grabbed her shoulders. "What's wrong, Liza? Why are you keeping it all in?"
Liza shook her head wildly. "Nothing's wrong! I'm fine. I have to be fine."
The dollhouse split down the middle with a cracking shriek. A flood gushed from the broken walls, sweeping dolls out like debris.
Mortimer's whisper was sharp as torn paper. "A house stuffed with silence always bursts."
Liza screamed, clutching at the floating dolls. "I can't cry! Papa said I mustn't. When Mama left, he said I had to be strong. No more tears."
Clara's chest ached. She reached for Liza's hand. "But you're not fine. And you don't have to be strong all the time."
The dollhouse keened louder, splitting further. Porch boards groaned beneath the flood.
"Cry, Liza," Clara urged. "Cry before the house drowns you."
Liza's lips trembled. For a moment she fought it, her whole body stiff. But then a sob broke free—small, ragged. Another followed, and another, until tears streamed down her face. She collapsed into Clara's arms, wailing, raw and unhidden.
The dollhouse slowed its trembling. The flood thinned to trickles. Its jagged walls knit back together, though gaps remained where the paint had peeled.
Clara held Liza tightly as the storm of sobs passed. "It's okay," she whispered. "You're allowed to cry. You don't have to let the house do it for you."
Liza wiped her cheeks with flour-pale fingers. "But… Papa said—"
"Papa was wrong," Clara said firmly. "Crying doesn't make you weak. It makes you real."
The porch was quiet now except for dripping water. Inside the dollhouse, the dolls lay scattered, but no more sobbing came. The house was scarred, but still.
Liza looked down at it, her red eyes clear for the first time. "Thank you," she whispered.
Clara gave her hand a squeeze. "Promise me you'll cry when you need to. Not just for you—but so the house won't have to."
Liza nodded, hugging her dolls to her chest.
Mortimer stepped forward, his cracked mask catching the faint light. "Another wound closed," he murmured. "But silence waits in many hearts. The dark feeds on what people bury."
Clara glanced at him uneasily. Each story they stepped into seemed heavier than the last—an attic of shadows, a baker's fire, now a dollhouse of tears. How many more would there be?
Mortimer's paper cloak rustled like dry wings. "As many as there are souls who swallow themselves whole."
Clara shivered. The dollhouse was quiet, but her own chest wasn't. She wondered how many tears she had hidden, how many cracks she had ignored. And she knew Mortimer would not let her forget.