Imagine a little shop selling dolls with a lovely old lady running it. Sometimes the dolls seem a little strange; there's always the classics, smiling little girls and soldiers in neat outfits, but some of the dolls seem to be middle aged moms and bratty older brothers and tired accountants.

It's not detrimental to business. In fact, it gives them a type of charm. The store does well. There's people in and out all the time, looking for presents for their younger relatives, decorations, even friends. Kids love the place, and young mothers smile as they pass the shop window.

Even more, though, sometimes the shop seems to attract lost souls. They'll wander in, not hearing the door shut. They'll look around, smiling at some of the toys and trying, for some reason, not to cry.

Inevitably, they will continue further in. Somewhere, most often in the back of the store, they'll pick up a doll. They'll stare at it, tears making their way slowly down their cheeks.

They know who they're looking at.

"It's your fault," Will whisper a voice from the mirror behind them. They'll turn, and they'll come face to face with their perfect dream and their worst nightmare. The lovely old lady will watch. If she's lucky, she'll have another doll by the end of the night. If she's not, well... it's still fun.

The bell will ring as the man will push the door open. She'll glance up, and, immediately, she will want him. She hadn't had a doll with eyes as green as these in an eternity.

She'll watch the door lock. He won't notice anything, despite the fact that he had been trained to notice everything. It's just the place. He'll look a little confused as to why he's here, but he'll plow forward

After a few minutes, she'll enter the room he had gone into. He'll be in the corner, a small, porcelain doll clutched in his hand. It'll be the one she had never gotten around to washing. There's some sort of black goo sticking to its cheeks, smudges on its tan jacket. There's a crack spiraling up its pretty face, blue eyes wide open as though in surprise.

The man won't care. He'll stare down at the doll, confusion, grief, and anger mixing on his face.

She'll ask, stepping into the room, smiling warmly at him. "You know, this one isn't for sale. It's broken, you see? Wouldn't be good of me to sell something like this to you."

She'll reach out and try to pry the doll away from him by the hair, not caring when some of it ends up torn out on her hand. The green-eyed man won't let go.

"Don't..." His voice will break. "Don't do that." His thumb will come up, brushing the doll's hair back in a surprisingly gentle motion. His hands will be strong, big, calloused, used, but the gesture will be light, careful. Not the way he's been trained to be.

"It doesn't matter. I'm throwing that one out, anyways. I told you, it's broken." She'll say, still smiling.

"No- No, don't do that. I... I don't care. Doesn't matter what's broken, okay? You can't throw this away."

She pretends to pout, but she knows she'll have him by the end of the hour.

"Well," She says, "I suppose. Tell me if you need anything."

As she heads back to her desk, she will hear a gravely voice speak from the mirror. She will wonder, absently, if Green-Eyes will be one of the ones who cry.