Hello,

If you've read the old version of this story before, thank you. And if you were hoping for an update, I'm sorry if this isn't quite what you expected—but it's one I feel is necessary.

I've left this story untouched for a while, letting time grow over it as life got in the way. Chasing dreams means pushing forward without stopping, and that often makes it hard to find time for everything—including my many other hobbies.

However, I'm hoping to dedicate more time to this story. It has always felt special to me, and now that I'm older and have gained more insight, I have new ideas and aspirations for it. That said, I'll be honest—I'm not sure how consistent I'll be. But at the end of the day, all we can do is try our best.

Thank you for your patience and support. Enjoy!

A Day Like Any Other

Today began as every other day does—my slumber shattered by the rooster's robust cries outside our little home and the impatient meows of my ferocious country cat, Figaro, perched on the edge of my bed. And, of course, not where my feet are supposed to be.

I groaned, stretching as a yawn tore from my lips—perhaps obnoxiously so, but with no one around to hear, I didn't care. As I threw myself over the side of the bed, Figaro wasted no time, trotting over and magnetizing himself to my side.

"Haven't learned what personal space is yet, Figaro?" I murmured, scratching the fluffy top of his head.

He responded with a monotone meow—his usual, unimpressed way of saying nope.

I chuckled, giving him one last scratch before stretching again, another yawn escaping. But as soon as my eyes fluttered open, I winced—morning sunlight streamed through the window, bouncing off my smooth, glossy surface. Too bright. Too sharp. The warmth clung to the parts of me it touched, a reminder of what I was.

Nevertheless, I shook off the moment and pushed forward. After quickly dressing, and brushing out my chestnut locks, I set to work on my safe chores—safe, as Mother liked to call them—washing the floors, dusting every hidden crevice, tidying up our small yet cozy home.

Mother was already outside tending to the crops, as she usually was during the mornings. I wouldn't see her until the afternoon.

Once my chores were finished, I decided to start on breakfast—or maybe lunch, considering the time. Today, I was in the mood for French toast.

Soon, the sweet, buttery aroma filled the house, curling through every room like a warm hug.

"Mmmmmm," Mother hummed as she stepped inside, the scent unmistakably pulling her in. I smile at her lovingly and kiss her on the cheek before she has the chance to sit down.

"Good morning, Mother. How were the fields today? Anything interesting happen?" My voice resonated through the room, carrying the hollow timbre of my porcelain frame.

Most people would find it odd to ask if anything interesting happened during something as mundane as farm work, but I needed anything I could get—any detail, any little story—to make my small world feel a little bigger. Even more so lately, since Mother added a new restriction for my safety.

Ever since retrieving milk from the cows—something I had done countless times before—went south last month, I haven't been allowed within five feet of them.

I love the cows. And I know they love me, too, with the way they used to rush toward me, their warm breath puffing against my smooth skin, their big eyes blinking with lazy affection. But last time…

Last time, things went wrong.

One of them bumped me—a simple, accidental nudge—and I stumbled into the thick, sticky mud. That alone wouldn't have been so bad, but the weight of the mud clung to me, too strong, too viscous, and I was too light. I couldn't pull myself up fast enough. The ground trembled as hooves thundered past me, inches away.

Mother screamed.

And in an instant, she was there, scooping me up as if I weighed nothing, clutching me to her chest like a child.

I haven't been near the cows since. I was also worried her bad heart would give out from the incident alone.

"Thank you again, darling. Every meal from Chef Penelope is an excellent one. Now, I wonder where you could have gotten that talent from," Mother teases, smirking as she throws me a playful wink.

I snort at the face she's making—it's so exaggerated, so her.

I can't help but play along. "Anything for mademoiselle," I say, attempting the deepest bow I can manage. We both burst into laughter, letting the moment stretch between us like a familiar melody.

We settle into easy conversation, the kind that flows effortlessly, filling the space with warmth. Figaro sprawls lazily across my lap, his purring a steady vibration against my porcelain skin as I stroke his fur. For a little while, it feels like nothing else matters—just us, just this.

But moments like these never last forever.

As soon as Mother finishes her meal, she pushes back from the table with a sigh and sets off to tackle the rest of the day's work before the sunlight slips away. I wish she would let me help her—especially with how the sun beats down on her, relentless, and with her worrisome heart condition.

But to her, those jobs are too dangerous for me.

And so, while Mother worked on the rest of the farm, I stayed pressed to the glass, watching the world move on without me—like a play unfolding on a stage I could never step onto.

After all, toys break easily when taken outside their room.

And so, in the meantime, all I could do to pass the time was tend to the little things around the house—whatever caught my attention. Like restitching the couch after yet another encounter with Figaro's claws or rereading the same book for the third time, even though I practically knew it by heart.

I didn't mind the housework. If anything, it gave me an excuse to sing—something I was much too shy to do in front of Mother, or probably anyone for that matter. Who knows if I'm even any good?

But still, there was something exhilarating about it—the way my voice intertwined with the rhythmic clinking of my porcelain skin against whatever task I was tending to, as if the house itself was harmonizing with me.

It wasn't until early evening that Mother returned, signaling the start of my daily lessons—English, math, and history. Admittedly, my mind wandered often during these sessions. Mother was not the most riveting speaker, and no matter how hard I tried, my thoughts always drifted elsewhere.

I missed the cows—their soft noses, the way their long, slimy tongues would slurp affectionately at my hands. I missed the scent of fresh dirt in the air, the honeysuckle blooming in Mother's flower garden. The outside world felt so far away, just out of reach.

My thoughts were interrupted by silence—an abrupt, telling pause. A few beats too late, I realized Mother had stopped speaking.

"Now, Penny," she warned, her tone laced with familiar exasperation. "How many times am I going to have to repeat myself? How are you going to understand this material for the exam?"

I bit back the urge to roll my eyes, though the temptation was strong. An exam. As if I would ever step foot outside to use this knowledge.

"I'm sorry, Mother. You won't have to do it again," I assured her, offering my best attempt at sincerity.

She gave me an amused smile. "For today," I quipped, she rolled her eyes in mock dramatics. I could tell she was only teasing, her face giving way to a playful smirk.

But before she could resume the lesson, a light knocking echoed through the house.

It was already pitch black outside. And we lived far from town.

I stiffened.

"Who could that be this late?" I whispered, barely daring to let my voice rise above the hush of the room.

Mother's expression mirrored my confusion, though beneath it, I could see a flicker of unease. She tried to hide it, but I knew her too well. Without another word, I slipped away, descending into the basement, turning off the light as I went.

The dark swallowed me whole.

I forced myself to ignore the eerie stillness pressing in around me, instead focusing all my attention on the muffled sounds above.

I heard the creak of the floorboards as Mother stepped toward the door. The soft click of the first latch unlocking, though the second—the chain—remained firmly in place.

She took a steadying breath before pulling the door open as far as the chain would allow, just enough to get a glimpse of the stranger standing beyond it.

All I heard once the door was opened was the voice of a young man, polite yet uncertain.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I'm so sorry to interrupt your night," he said. "I'll make this quick so I don't waste your time. I came here looking for more information on a relative of mine who recently passed away, and I was hoping you might know something. Are you Marilyn Parker?"

A beat passed.

"Yes…" Mother hesitated. "Who is your relative?"

"My grandfather, Abraham Portman. He traveled a lot in the '60s and took plenty of pictures."

Unbeknownst to me, the boy had slipped a small Polaroid from his coat. The picture showed a baby nestled in a bassinet, swaddled in a cloudy pink cloth.

Ordinary enough.

Except… it wasn't.

The baby's face wasn't soft and round like it should have been. The features were sharp, the lines too defined—almost painted on.

Like a doll.

The young man quickly read the back of the Polaroid before Mother even had a chance to react.

"Marilyn Parker's Baby," he stated.

My eyes widened. I hadn't expected to be dragged into this conversation. Could this really be a picture of me? After everything Mother has done to keep me hidden, to keep me safe from the world… and now, some random stranger has a photo of me as an infant?

And who is Abraham Portman?

Mother has never mentioned any friends. No connections. No life outside of this farm and the countryside.

Curiouser and curiouser.

I hear Mother unlatch the last lock on the door, so as to probably get a better look at the photograph.

I was so enamored by the conversation, hanging on every word, that I failed to notice how comfortable I had gotten—how much I had unconsciously leaned against the basement's old wooden door.

A mistake.

It didn't take much. The door was so weak it could be swung open by the wind, and I, as light as I am, was just enough to push it past its limit.

The door swung open.

I tumbled forward, instinctively curling as I fell—thankfully already crouched, meaning I landed close to the ground.

But I hear a clink, the damage was done.

I was exposed.

The basement door was only ten feet from the front door. Panic surged through me as I scrambled to retreat back into the shadows.

But in those few, damning seconds, I caught a glimpse of the stranger.

He stood there, fully visible, staring straight at me. My vision blurred with panic, but I could just make out his figure— a black coat, jeans, and what seemed to be a button-up shirt.

Before I could bolt, a sickening sensation settled deep in my gut.

Something was wrong.

I wasn't all there.

Literally.

I looked down.

My left thumb and index finger lay on the floor, perfectly intact—just no longer attached to me.

My fall hadn't been steep. It shouldn't have hurt me. But my porcelain body had betrayed me, the impact shattering me in the smallest, most horrifying way.

A cold wave of realization crashed over me. My breath hitched. My vision swam.

White spots filled my sight.

And then—

Everything went black.

Everything is gray.

Dull and almost gloomy. It's oddly warm too, but not in an uncomfortable way.

A thought crosses my mind, and I quickly glance down at my hands.

Yep, still made of china. Even in a dream.

"Hello!" I called out. The space echoes back, throwing my own voice at me, only farther away, like someone else is saying it.

I slowly turn in a full circle, scanning the area, looking for something. Then, in my line of sight, I catch a shape in the distance. It's a few ways from me, not too far, but not exactly close either.

I try to squint, straining my eyes to make it out, but all I get is a sharp ache for my trouble. With a huff, I rub at them for a moment before shaking it off.

Hesitantly, I take a step forward, then another, making my way toward the shape standing in the middle of this abyss of gray and gloom. Heh, even in a dream, I still clink every time I move… I chuckle to myself.

Normally, I'd be afraid. I mean, what if this shape was some kind of monster? One hit, and I'd be shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

But by now, I know. This is a dream.

If I really wanted to, I could wake myself up.

But hey, why waste it? In the real world, I don't get much of a chance to explore.

As I get closer, the shape begins to take form. A house.

A huge house.

Standing right in front of me now, it's beautiful—almost perfect in the way it looms. The kind of house you'd expect to have a long history but still looks brand new, untouched by time.

The walls are made of red brick, lined with massive windows, their glass panes shimmering despite the dull, gray world around us. A pointed green roof stretches high, sharp against the nothingness above. Just in front of the house sits a glass greenhouse, delicate and pristine, with hints of lush green peeking through the panes. Thick, dark green bushes hug the sides of the house, and within them, butterflies and hummingbirds flit around like they belong to a different world entirely.

And maybe they do.

Because none of them—none—stray past the bushes.

Like there's some invisible barrier keeping them locked inside this perfect, snow-globe-like world.

I stare at the house, soaking in its presence, feeling the odd warmth it radiates. Without thinking, I take a step forward, ready to cross the threshold—

Then, suddenly—

A sound.

Fast. Aggressive.

Like a fan spinning at impossible speeds, tearing through the silence.

I freeze.

My head whips around in every direction, heart hammering. The sound is getting closer. Louder. More violent.

Then, from behind the house—

A fleet of green planes rips through the sky.

They move fast—too fast—cutting through the air like knives. The sheer force sends powerful gusts slamming into me, whipping my hair, tugging at my nightgown.

Something is wrong.

Very wrong.

The alarms in my head were going off manically, screeching like a chorus of banshees.

Run, run, run!

That's all my thoughts screamed at me, and that's exactly what I did.

I spun around and bolted. The aggressive roar of the planes mixed with the frantic clinking of my porcelain feet against the ground. But amid all that noise, something else cut through—sharp and shrill, a high-pitched wail from behind me.

Instinctively, I risked a glance over my shoulder.

My eyes grew to the size of plates. My mouth snapped open, and an ear splitting scream tore out of me.

A black object was plummeting from the gray sky.

A bomb.

My stomach lurched when I caught sight of the massive swastika painted on its side. The piercing wail of its descent drilled into my skull, growing louder and louder until I couldn't stand it—I clamped my hands over my ears as I ran, but it did nothing to stop the excruciating sound.

I was still screaming, as if my voice could be heard over the chaos.

Run, run, run!

I pushed forward as fast as my fragile legs could carry me, but no matter how much I ran, I felt like I wasn't getting anywhere. Like I was stuck in place while the bomb rushed toward me.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I braced for the inevitable.

And then—

Impact.

The explosion ripped through the air, shaking everything to its core.

My scream peaked as the ground beneath me convulsed, sending debris flying in every direction. Huge chunks of the grand house rocketed past me—one nearly taking me out completely. But that wasn't why I screamed louder.

I was falling.

The force of the blast had knocked me forward, and my whole body tumbled through the air.

And for a split second, I forgot this was a dream.

Because it all felt too real.

One thought slammed into my head like a final verdict—

I'm going to shatter.

The end.

It wouldn't matter if I tried to catch myself—my hands would only break off upon impact. I clenched my eyes shut, waiting for the cold, hard ground to meet me.

But it never did.

Instead of shattering, I landed on something soft.

Very, very soft.

I was still gasping, adrenaline thrumming violently through my body. Hesitantly, I opened my eyes, lifting my head just enough to see where I had landed.

Feathers.

Not just any feathers—huge, well-groomed ones, white with speckled black spots.

I flipped onto my back, chest still heaving, and froze.

My breath hitched at the sight before me.

Right before me were two enormous eyes and a sharp, yellow beak, the tip of it painted a dark gray.

A bird!?

Hesitantly, I tore my gaze away from its face and looked around, piecing together what had just happened. From the looks of it, the bird had caught me mid-fall, cushioning my impact with one of its massive wings—where I was still currently perched.

The initial fear that had gripped me began to fade, though a wary tension remained. My eyes flickered back to its face, one brow raised. I couldn't tell what species it was, but one thing was for sure—it was a breathtaking creature.

Even with one wing extended beneath me, it stood tall and proud. I found myself entranced, as if under a spell.

The moment the bird decided I had stared long enough, it let out a sharp squawk, tilting its head slightly as if expecting something from me.

It took me a second to catch on.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" I scrambled to my feet, quickly stepping off its wing. As it tucked the massive limb back into place, I shrank back slightly, realizing just how towering the creature was. At a staggering height of around 9'1", it completely dwarfed my mere 5'5" frame.

"Thank you," I whispered.

The magnificent creature dipped its head in a slight bow, as if to say, You're welcome. Then, just as gracefully, it lifted its head again and resumed watching me.

I felt its eyes analyzing me—deep, unreadable, yet not unnerving. I should have been intimidated. But strangely, I wasn't.

Maybe it was because it had saved me, and I knew it meant no harm. But there was something else. The bird carried a presence that was oddly… comforting. Almost motherly.

Then, the memory hit me like a slap to the face.

The house!

I gasped, spinning on my heels and dashing past the great bird. It turned too, following my gaze.

My heart sank.

The beautiful, proud house stood no more.

All that remained was devastation—scattered debris, shattered windows, a collapsed frame. The home that had once felt so warm and welcoming was now nothing but a pile of broken remnants.

A tear slipped down my smooth cheek.

I lifted a porcelain finger to my face, catching the droplet. Huh. I stared at the tiny speck of water on my fingertip before lowering my hand again.

Looking back at the wreckage, my frown deepened.

"And it was such a happy house too," I murmured.

Not wanting to look any longer, I turned back to the creature.

It was still staring at the ruins with those glossy black eyes. One might think such dark, beady eyes couldn't possibly be expressive, but somehow, I could see the sorrow in them. It wasn't just me. It was mourning too.

When it looked down at me, I saw that same sadness reflected back.

I sighed, fiddling with my fingers as more tears—far too many—continued spilling freely.

"I agree," I whispered, voice small. "It's such a sad sight, isn't it?"

The tears wouldn't stop. It was strange, because normally in dreams, I had some control. But not this time. The flow was relentless, as steady as a waterfall.

I glanced back up at the bird—just in time to see a single, massive tear fall from its right eye.

It crashed into the ground with a splash, sending ripples through the dirt. If I hadn't stepped aside in time, I would have been completely drenched. A few stray droplets landed on my nightgown, darkening the fabric.

I looked back at the bird. It looked back at me.

And together, we mourned.

The sight before me only made my frown deepen, my sorrow settling in like a weight on my chest. My tear-streaked face felt raw, the steady flow of sadness streaming down like a faucet turned on full blast.

But then—something surfaced in my mind. A memory.

A poem.

I had read it once in one of my books. How did it go again…?

Oh, yeah.

I straightened my posture, lifting my head slightly as I recited, my voice smooth and unwavering:

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, health, and quiet breathing."

When I finished, the bird seemed momentarily taken aback, its large eyes blinking at me. But then—something changed. Its body relaxed, and a sense of calm settled over it, as if my words had draped it in peace.

Slowly, the great creature lowered itself to the ground, folding its legs beneath it in a bird's resting position. Then, with a small rustle, it untucked one of its wings and stretched it out toward me.

A soft squawk.

I blinked.

It was beckoning me.

I hesitated only for a second before stepping forward and nestling myself beneath its outstretched wing. The moment it gently tucked me in, warmth enveloped me.

I was cocooned in the softest feathers I had ever felt.

It was… nice. So fluffy!

A quiet giggle slipped past my lips, my body sinking further into the plush embrace. As I settled in, something dawned on me.

My tears had stopped.

I reached up, brushing a hand over my cheek. Dry.

I smiled, just a little. They must have stopped when I finished the poem.

With a soft yawn, I let my eyes flutter shut, my fingers curling into the downy warmth.

"Goodnight, Birdie," I whispered.

And then, I drifted off.