The hmmm of a gear, the ratchet of a tired wooden joint back into its place, and a caress along her splintered curve as a final touch. The witch eyes her creation as she finishes yet another repair on her mechanical figure, the beating of a clockwork heart faintly audible from within the toy's bosom.

"Now don't try to leave the house on your own again, okay? I work really hard to keep you in working order........" The doll nodded in reply.

"Mhm! Sorry, owner! This one just wanted to try to go the grocery store by itself to help!" Her mouth wooden mouth pursed, in imitation of a squiggle, and her eyes flit shut in embarrassment. A subtle smile drew over the witch's face and she held the sides of her doll's head.

A sigh of happiness. "I am always gr8ful for your enthusiam, little one. 8ut remem8er to 8e careful." She kissed her doll's rough and tattered forehead, aged from time and affection, and ran a hand through her auburn hair. "You are loved more than you can ever know."

The thump thump of the clockwork heart continued as the two embraced, the rhythm of their connection in perfect synchronicity. How could the witch blame the doll for fulfilling her purpose in any way she could? She was made for her. But the thought of her breaking in her name was too much to bear.

As if the witch was made for the doll, in turn. A symbiosis, for where would maker be without creation? How could a witch live without her doll curled up in her arms, the heat of her gears warming the witch's entire body as the two drift into sleep inextricably woven?

There is no love like that between a doll and her owner.

Let everything that's been planned come true.

Let them believe.

And let them have a laugh at their passions.

Because what they call passion actually is not some emotional energy, but just the friction between their souls and the outside world.

And most important, let them believe in themselves, let them be helpless like children, because weakness is a great thing, and strength is nothing.

When a man is just born, he is weak and flexible, when he dies, he is hard and insensitive.

When a tree is growing, it's tender and pliant, but when it's dry and hard, it dies.

Hardness and strength are death's companions.

Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being.

Because what has hardened will never win.