Rain patters against the panes—impressive and sturdy looking, but in the end the sounds still come through—tinkling soft like a cacophony of xylophone music. She thinks of a childhood that is only half-hers; the one she pretends is hers until she almost believes it. A white music box with a dancing plastic girl, given to her by another girl's grandmother, plays a song that she thinks she remembers.
For a fleeting moment, she wants to run outside and touch the rain—she's never touched it before, what does it feel like?—and dance and shout and scream loud enough to break through the nothing, make sounds that even they can hear, through their glass-window-walls of nothing, make a scene and a spectacle of herself as if to stand up and say 'see, world? you're not so tough.' She thinks that maybe that's what she'll scream.
She lets a little-girl sigh out of her big-girl body. Never growing up, always chasing after reality, caught in Neverland, the little puppet. I'm a real girl whispers through her veins, and she thinks maybe she'll shout that instead. But she remembers what Marluxia told her about telling lies.
She sits in the middle of her white, white room, and wonders if she is sad. But no, Marluxia told her she can't be sad. She's a nobody—a nobody among nobodies. She is a pretty little puppet-girl, a doll (Marluxia once told her that, too, she remembers). She thinks of a white music box that sounds like rain, with a plastic dancing girl that doesn't belong to her.