***

“Now, dear, would you like to choose a name?”

***

The voice filled its head as it slowly came to. Its eyes were open, it was sure of that; Yet it could not yet see the face of the person humming the sweet lullaby reaching its ears. As it began to struggle in panic, a hand came to rest on its shoulders.
“You’re already awake,” the voice spoke in a soothing tone. “I must apologise, I spent so much time stringing you up. I wanted to make sure everything was perfect. Please, wait here, I’ll put in your eyes right away.” Just like that., she waked slowly to somewhere farther in the room, before returning to its side, getting to work. The cold sensation of a metal instrument surprised it as its bottom lid was stretched out a bit, and a small, round object was carefully inserted in one eye, then the other.
“There,” the voice spoke again, “try to blink a few times. It will be uncomfortable at first, even in this dim light. You’ll be seeing with those eyes for the first time, after all. You’ll need time to adjust.”
It blinked, and blinked again, and slowly, vague shapes and splashes of colour came into its view, some reds and yellow. It blinked a few more times. The details were fuzzy, blurring together no matter how hard it tried. Noticing the discomfort, the woman spoke up again in a worried voice.
“Oh, are you having trouble seeing, dear? Eyes are such a finicky little thing, they’re hard to get just right. I tend to make mine near-sighted.” Saying this, she took off her own glasses, flipping them and placing the temples upon its ears carefully. It blinked some more; Its eyes strained a bit as its vision gradually became clearer. It was in an opulent room: Heavy curtains of red velvet and golden thread barred the light of day outside from coming in. The fabric covered the furniture as well, a fainting couch in the corner and an arm chair in front of the fireplace. Its attention, however, fell upon the face of the one to whom the voice belonged. A mature-looking woman, her kindly gaze fixated upon it, observing its reactions with some careful apprehension.
“Back to the matter at hand. You will need a few days to learn everything again,” she explained. “How to move, how to speak, it will all take some time. In the meantime, you can try and think of a new name, if you wish. I’d be delighted to name you myself. But you’re not just any old doll, dear. It would be cruel of me to not let you decide upon your own name if you want.”
A doll. With some effort, it tilted its head downwards. There, in its lap were folded a pair of cream-coloured porcelain hands. And sure enough, in lieu of knuckles lied fragile balls, each allowing the fingers limited movement for now. It tried to grasp at its emerald green dress, then let go again. Grasp, and let go. It repeated the movement a couple of time, slow and hesitant.
“Ah, but I have yet to introduce myself!” Exclaimed the woman, drawing the doll’s gaze back up. She carefully held its hands in hers. “My name is Hélène, dear doll. I like to think of myself as my dolls’ mother.”

***

Learning the piano was no simple task for anyone. Least of all a doll who had just awakened. Yet, here it was, sat in Hélène’s lap, its fingers hesitantly hovering over the keys, carefully coming down, almost fearing a wrong note. A timid chord rang out through the large and empty concert hall, barely more audible than the metronome ticking away next to a doll.
“That is very good, dear.” Hélène praised her doll, gently running her fingers through its hair. “Now, try to keep time. One, two, three, one, two, three…” She instructed, as the doll shifted its gold-streaked fingers into position for the next chord. The doll had already broken its fragile fingers by accident, and Hélène had spent much time putting great care into piecing the porcelain back together, leaving thin ring-like cracks filled with gold. Another timid chord. “That’s it, dear. Relaxed and loose. Now, try to sing the words.”
A doll reared its head, minding its posture, mimicking a habit no doubt retained from its previous life. Yet, as the next measure came, no sound was heard. Hélène pressed a kiss atop of the doll’s head.
“A doll is sorry, mama.” It spoke in a whisper. It was still so strange, speaking let alone singing through its closed, immobile lips.
“What for, dear? A doll did nothing wrong.” She reassured it. “I am certain your voice will be beautiful when you find the courage to sing. And, when you are more familiar with your body, you will have my opera house all to yourself, so you can practice as much as you want.” The doll remained silent, slowly retracting its hands back onto its lap. “Should we maybe get some fresh air? Would you like another tea party on the beach?” A doll slowly acquiesced.

***

The waves were calm today. Despite the soft pitter-patter of rain upon the sand and the umbrella covering them both, there was little wind. All things considered, it was a beautiful day for a tea party. A doll sat on a blanket, its poofy navy dress outfitted by Hélène for the occasion. It held the fragile cup in both its hands, the heat from the undrinkable tea only a distant sensation. Despite its glasses, a doll had trouble discerning the cup’s edge: It seemed to merge with its own hands, waxing and waning, where a doll’s own porcelain would seem to overtake the cup.
“What are you thinking of, dear?” Hélène asked a silent doll, its eyes fixated on the cup in its hands. “Have you chipped your fingers again?” She continued as her gaze turned worried, carefully grasping a doll’s hand to examine the delicately sculpted limb. With a hesitant voice, a doll finally spoke up.
“Mama, what was a doll’s old body like?” Hélène fell silent for a second, thinking of how to word her answer in a way that would not upset the doll.
“Why are you asking, dear?”
“A doll’s body still feels odd, and not quite like its body. Yet this feels familiar.” At a doll’s word, Hélène fell silent. “Has a doll ever felt at home in its body, mama?” Her fingers shaking a little, Hélène leaned forward, cupping a doll’s face in both her hands, and pressing a kiss upon its forehead. Like clockwork, a doll’s eyelids fell closed.
“I cannot say for certain, my doll. I only know of the body I found you in,” She whispered against its porcelain skin. “It was a beautiful thing, however. A deep blue shimmering under even the dimmest of light. It was like looking up at the sun rays from deep into the sea.”
“Was it really so beautiful, mama?”
“Of course. A doll looked so pretty, in this body you haunted for so long.” A doll kept its eyes closed, trying to imagine the look of such a body. “You know,” Hélène continued, “I have kept your old body. To me, it holds the fond memory of me finding you.” A doll was silent, unsure of what to say, and as it tended to do in those moments, its limbs started to grow limp and it started to fall forward. Hélène caught a doll in her arms. The teacup escaped its hands, the now lukewarm liquid spilling over and leaving a faint spot upon the dark fabrics of both their dresses. She gently giggled, patting the top of its head. “I meant to say that, if you are curious, I could show you this old body of yours,” she murmured to it. The rain had stopped, and over the horizon, the clouds had started to part, revealing the timid rising moon in the distance. Its body still limp in her arms, it merely murmured back. “I would like that, mama.”

***

This was increasingly natural to it. If at first, it would tense up as soon as it felt itself slip away, a doll came to find, day after day, that falling limp, relying on its mama and the bands inside itself to hold a pose, was the most relaxed it had ever felt. Naturally, it felt perfectly at peace as Hélène handled its hands with great care, resting them around the small porcelain urn. It was small, round and heavy, and sealed by shimmering resin. The dark porcelain indeed felt familiar to a doll, and as Hélène got to work at her easel, capturing the odd family picture (as she had described it to a doll), it looked down, pondering the surface. It was indeed a beautiful object, a body it could only now appreciate after haunting it for… How long exactly? It couldn’t remember. Nor could it remember if it ever had haunted any other body, besides the one now in its hands. Again, it felt its vision falter, the urn becoming part of itself once more. It didn’t mind, however. Such a beautiful thing was not unpleasant to be. A doll caught the faint reflection of its doll face upon the smooth surface, and found itself amused as it wondered: If it was both the doll and the urn, then what was it really, the reflection of its face or the one beholding it? It giggled at the thought, as it started to imagine one case then the other, back and forth.
“A doll is always beautiful, you know,” spoke Hélène. “Dolls are such pretty things, no matter what.” Careful, practised strokes of the brush applied large strokes of colour on the canvas, the hair letting out a faint, gentle rustling along Hélène’s steady motions. “There is little, in this world, more precious than a doll’s joy as it gazes upon its own body; Than a doll who loves its own beauty, as it is loved by others.”
“Then, mama,” a doll tilted its head, “Do dolls sometimes learn to make dolls as well?” Hélène’s smile grew fonder at the question, and she acquiesced.
“They do, dear doll. I have known dolls who, once they had learnt my craft, chose a new name, crafted a new doll, and enchanted it to inhabit it.” She picked up a finer brush.
“They must have been beautiful…” A doll sighed, trying to imagine how it might fashion its own body.
“They were indeed.” Hélène nodded, returning her attention fully to the canvas. Slowly, another question bubbled into a doll’s mind, one it was unsure how to even formulate. Still, it spoke up, more timid than before.
“Why do you love dolls so much, mama?” She paused, taking a long glance at the urn tucked into a doll’s hands, a gleam of light in her gaze as she thought of how to best answer her doll.
“I suppose I am still a bit childish,” she answered, visibly amused at the realisation. “There is a singular beauty in dolls. Rather, one that dolls embody perfectly.” She paused once more, now observing a doll in full. “There is beauty in creation, I think. And thus beauty in all constructs.” A doll fell silent, thinking over the answer, as Hélène returned to her painting. It weighed the words, slowly, repeatedly. “There is beauty in creation,” it repeated to itself, focusing, and soon forgetting all other thoughts, all other sensations, until it fell asleep with one last echo of these words.
A doll woke up sometimes later, to its mother kissing the top of its head, gently rubbing its shoulders. Rousing from its sleep, its eyes opened, and through the glasses atop its nose, its gaze fell upon the easel, now turned to face it, mounted with a coloured canvas. It peered at the portrait, noting how the gold shimmer of its fingers drew the eyes to the midnight blue hue of the urn, blending into the folds of its assorted dress. Finally, the thin, golden glasses framing its face, so similar to mama’s own. It had seen its own face before, of course. And yet, seeing each of its details so carefully captured by a caring hand… Yes, this was its true self. And looking at the painting, and being looked at the self in the painting, it felt pretty.