She looked like a discarded porcelain doll, with her long, silky gold hair. Her big gold eyes, half open and blank. Her white skin, unnaturally white without a hint of color.

Her chest didn't move. Dolls didn't breathe. Why would she be an exception?

There was no delicate dress, no ruffles or lace or anything fragile. She had always been clothed in sturdy leather, blood red cloth, no way of seeing her bleed.

Dolls were not flawed. They were perfectly proper. Not her. There are blood stains marring her face, rips in her clothes, and cracks in the porcelain. He didn't care.

No porcelain heart. A mechanical one whirred slowly inside her chest instead.

She lay where she fell, as if dropped by a careless child. She had been forgotten, ignored, left behind.

He had picked her up on a whim, like an addition to his collection of people. He had seen value in the little china doll. To him, she was beautiful, despite all her flaws and cracks. He treasured her and simply wished to protect her. He cleaned her as best as he could, gently wiping away years of neglect and pain.

But now…

He cradled his broken china doll. Her rich hair still smelled of cinnamon. Slowly, her tired mechanical heart whirred to a stop. His tears dropped onto her cracked face.

She had shattered irrevocably one last time.

And broken dolls couldn't be mended.