The dawn of a new century arrived quietly, slipping through the cracks of time like sunlight beneath a door.
The year was 1900.
I had long stopped counting the decades, but I could feel them—layered around me like dust, thick and heavy. Each passing year pressed more silence into my hollow body, yet the world outside refused to stay still.
The little boutique that once belonged to Elias Vinter had changed. What was once a humble tailor's shop had become something grand, a name spoken with admiration across the city: Elias Boutique.
His daughter, Margaret Vinter, now carried his legacy.
I watched her grow from the quiet young woman who had mourned her parents into a master of her craft, confident, graceful, and strong. Her hands were steady as her father's once were, but her touch carried the precision of someone who had built her own dream atop the ruins of another.
The boutique itself was unrecognizable. Where once there had been wooden floors and a single sewing table, there were now mirrors and polished counters, rows of silk dresses and wool coats hung like art along the walls. The faint hum of conversation and the soft ring of the entrance bell filled the air daily.
And through it all, I sat.
I had been moved again, this time to a place of honor—near the front window, dressed in the finest gown the boutique could offer. My porcelain skin gleamed in the light, my glass eyes catching reflections of the bustling streets outside. Children sometimes pressed their faces against the glass, marveling at the lifelike doll that stood so still.
To them, I was only decoration—a remnant of another time.
But inside, my thoughts stirred like a slow-moving tide.
I had watched generations come and go, cities rise and crumble, yet I remained the same. Eternal, and yet forgotten.
---
Margaret was often busy, but she spoke freely to her customers as she worked. Their chatter filled the shop, and through it, I learned more about the living world than I ever could have imagined.
> "Did you hear?" one woman whispered as Margaret adjusted her hem. "They say machines now pull carriages without horses! Can you believe such a thing?"
> "I saw one with my own eyes," another replied. "Terrifying contraptions, belching smoke. They say it's the future."
> "And electricity!" a third added. "My brother has lights that glow without fire."
Electricity.
Cars.
The world I once knew was beginning to bleed into this one. The future was unfolding all around me, like a memory returning to life.
Margaret would smile at their stories, her voice calm and measured.
> "The world is changing quickly," she said. "But some things—like a well-made dress—never lose their beauty."
Her customers laughed softly, admiring the way she spoke with confidence and grace. And though she didn't know it, I found comfort in her words. Elias would have said the same.
---
As the years rolled forward, Elias Boutique became a name whispered by society's finest. Women from noble families came in carriages lined with gold. They spoke of grand balls, of steam trains that crossed the continent, of telegrams carrying words faster than the wind.
The city outside thrived—streets lit by lamps that never dimmed, music echoing from cafés that never slept.
And I… watched it all.
Through the wide window, I saw the world move like an endless play. Lovers meeting under lamplight. Children running through puddles. Men in suits rushing past, holding briefcases and newspapers filled with stories I could never read.
I had once been a man among them. Now I was a statue—a silent observer, a ghost sealed in glass.
Sometimes, when the shop closed and Margaret swept the floor, she would pause near me.
> "You've been here longer than anyone," she said once, her tone affectionate. "If only you could see how far we've come, Clara."
If only she knew—I had seen it. Every moment. Every breath.
She often spoke to me while organizing her ledgers, her voice carrying across the quiet shop.
> "The papers say there's tension in the east," she murmured one evening. "A war brewing between nations again. It never ends, does it?"
> "And yet," she added softly, "people still buy dresses."
Her smile faded. "Maybe that's how we endure. By finding beauty even when the world falls apart."
Her words struck me deeply.
Because I remembered—long ago, before the crash, before the centuries—how I too had chased beauty. How I had tried to give life shape and perfection through porcelain and paint.
And now, here I was: a relic of that same pursuit.
---
Days turned to weeks, and the bustle of the shop continued. I became part of the rhythm—customers entering, leaving, laughing, gossiping. I learned to measure time by the sound of their shoes on the floorboards and the tone of Margaret's voice as she greeted them.
Occasionally, she would bring in her daughter, Eliza, a bright-eyed girl of ten who carried ribbons in her hair and curiosity in her gaze.
Eliza adored me.
> "Mama, she looks almost alive," the girl whispered one afternoon. "Did Grandpa really make her?"
> "No, my love," Margaret said, smiling gently. "Your grandfather only dressed her. She's far older than that. A family heirloom now."
> "She's beautiful," Eliza said, reaching up to touch my hand.
The warmth of her small fingers pressed against my porcelain, and for a moment, I thought I could feel it—faintly, like sunlight through frost.
Margaret laughed softly. "Careful, darling. She's fragile."
Fragile.
Yes. That was what I had always been. Fragile body, fragile dreams. A man who broke, and then kept on breaking—until he became something unbreakable.
---
Sometimes, late at night, when the lights were out and only the hum of the city echoed beyond the window, I wondered if this was all my existence would ever be.
To watch. To remember. To ache quietly in a body that would never decay, never age, never rest.
But the world was changing faster now. I could feel it, like distant thunder on the horizon. New machines. New wars. New hearts.
And maybe—just maybe—the thread that tied me to this world was beginning to pull taut again.
Because one night, as the last customer left and Margaret locked the door, a sudden spark of light flickered through the room.
Electricity.
A new lamp had been installed—a symbol of progress, of a new age.
Its light struck my face, and for an instant, the porcelain reflected more than glass.
It reflected eyes that blinked.
Only once.
Only for the briefest heartbeat.
But it was enough to remind me that somewhere, deep within this silent body, life was still waiting to return.