The world around Mira was always too still—too silent. No wind, no rustle, not even the faintest hum. Just endless rows of porcelain faces frozen in expressions that no longer belonged to them.
She sat at the edge of a glass cabinet, knees pulled to her chest, watching the painted garden beyond the dollhouse window. Time didn't pass here—it curled in on itself like a ribbon, fraying at the ends.
Then the air shifted.
A gust that wasn't really wind swept through, and Mira's head snapped up. She knew that sensation now. She had felt it twice before.
The Collector had arrived.
She glided into the room—no footsteps, just presence. Her youthful appearance today was unnerving: skin smooth as silk, lips cherry-red, and hair like black ink. But her eyes—those eyes were too old to belong to anyone under a hundred.
"I see you've made yourself at home," the Collector said, voice honey-sweet and venom-laced.
Mira didn't respond. She wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
The Collector tilted her head. "Still quiet? That's all right. I came to show you something."
With a snap of her fingers, the walls dissolved into shadowy film. Moving images played like ghostly memories: her parents laughing together, cooking side by side, Amanda resting her head on Shawn's shoulder. No arguments, no slammed doors, no whispered threats of divorce.
"They've stopped fighting," the Collector said softly. "Since you've been gone, they've remembered how to love."
Mira's heart ached.
Then another memory flickered to life—her father yelling about school reports, her mother crying in the bathroom, Mira hiding behind the staircase with her hands pressed over her ears.
"They fought because of you," the Collector whispered, stepping closer. "You were the reason."
"No," Mira whispered, but it came out too small. Too unsure.
The Collector smiled. "Think about your final wish. You've made two already. The last one is yours—yours alone. Wish for peace. Wish for release. Wish for something… beautiful."
She stepped back, lifting her hand. A shimmer of dark light swept around Mira, nearly invisible—but heavy, like a net of sorrow being cast.
"Think well, little doll," she said. "Grief has a voice. And now… it will sing to you."
And then she was gone.
Mira remained alone, trembling, as echoes of old fights and quiet sobs returned—louder now, twisted by guilt and doubt.
She didn't know what her third wish would be.
But she feared that whatever she chose… it would change everything.