Page 1 of Dolls of Ruin

One

Owninga thrift store had sounded like a dream when I’d signed the lease five years ago. A cozy little corner of town, crammed with forgotten treasures and secondhand stories, waiting for someone like me to bring it to life. But dreams have a way of turning into routines, and routines have a way of getting...lonely.

The heater groaned in the backroom, valiantly battling against the autumn chill seeping through the old brick walls. The shop smelled like it always did: a mix of wood polish, lavender cleaner, and the faintest hint of mothballs that refused to leave the vintage clothing rack. My coffee, forgotten on the counter, had gone tepid hours ago, but I still sipped it like it might magically turn warm again.

Outside, the streetlights flickered on, their orange glow spilling into the shop. The day had been slow—two customers, neither of whom bought anything—and I was debating whether rearranging the glass animal figurines for the fourth time would feel productive or just sad when the rumble of a delivery truck snapped me out of my stupor.

The truck pulled up to the curb, belching exhaust. I squinted at it through the shop window, frowning when the driver hoppedout without so much as a wave and began unloading crates onto the sidewalk.

“Excuse me?” I called, stepping outside as the evening air nipped at my cheeks.

The driver didn’t look up, just dropped the third crate with a thud and waved vaguely in my direction. By the time I reached the sidewalk, hands already on my hips, he was climbing back into the cab.

“Sure, thanks for the personalized service!” I shouted as the truck sputtered off. My voice was swallowed by the hum of traffic, leaving me alone with the three wooden crates that looked like they’d been dragged out of a pirate movie.

The first crate creaked ominously as I pried it open with a crowbar from the backroom. Inside, nestled in a bed of yellowed hay, was a collection of dolls. Not the cheerful, plastic kind you’d find at a toy store—these were something else entirely.

The first one I pulled out took my breath away. His skin gleamed golden, like someone had poured molten metal over him and shaped it into perfection. His face was sharp, regal, with eyes the color of amber, flecked with tiny hints of red that seemed to flicker when they caught the light.

What really caught my attention, though, was the design etched into his forehead. A delicate sunburst, its rays radiating outward as if they’d been there since the beginning of time.

“You look like you’re straight out of a fairytale,” I said, cradling him carefully as I set him on the counter. My eyes flickered up to the sunrays etched into his forehead again. “Sun. That’s what I’ll call you.”

I set him gently on the counter, turning back to the crate. There were more nestled in the hay, their features partially hidden beneath the straw. Each one seemed just as intricate as the last, and the sheer number of them made my breath catch.

The second doll was sleek, with silver skin that shimmered like moonlight. His face was softer, his expression serene, but his glowing blue eyes were anything but calm. They held a depth that felt infinite, like staring into the night sky and realizing how small you were.

Etched into his forehead was a crescent moon, subtle but unmistakable.

“And you’ll be Moon,” I said softly, placing him beside Sun. Together, they looked as if they belonged on a marble pedestal, forever gazing down at a world too flawed for them.

I carefully lifted the next doll, his crimson hair spilling over a tailored suit so detailed it looked like something out of a period drama. His sharp features and intense expression made him feel...alive, like he might demand an audience at any moment.

One by one, I pulled them from the crate: pale faces with expressions ranging from serene to mischievous, sleek clothing that whispered of another time, and details so intricate they felt like tiny masterpieces.

By the time I pried open the second crate, the counter was already crowded, but I couldn’t stop. More dolls, just as striking as the first, were nestled inside.

There was one with raven-black hair, dressed in sleek black attire that clung to him like a second skin. His flawless face was so perfect it made me hesitate before setting him down. Next came a marionette, his golden hair framing a knowing smile that seemed to follow me even as I worked.

Then came the cloth dolls, patched and stitched with mismatched fabrics. One grinned with unnerving green eyes, while another slumped in my hands, his tattered edges hanging loose like he’d given up holding himself together.

The third crate was no different.

As I reached for the last few dolls, I counted under my breath, the number climbing higher than I expected. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. By the time the last one was on the counter, I was staring at twenty-eight dolls, their porcelain and cloth faces gleaming under the shop lights like an aristocratic audience at an opening night gala.

I stepped back, rubbing the ache from my lower back as I surveyed them. “Well,” I said, more to myself than anyone else, “you’re certainly not boring.”

The clock in the corner chimed softly, reminding me that it was well past closing time.

“Alright,” I murmured, wiping my hands on my jeans and glancing at the lineup on the counter. “Let’s get you cleaned up tomorrow. I’m far too tired to start tonight.”

I flipped the shop lights off and locked the door behind me, the cool night air biting at my cheeks as I stepped outside. Tomorrow would be busy. But for now, the shop belonged to them.

And somehow, it already felt like they belonged here.

Two

The shop wasquiet that morning, the kind of stillness that heightened my awareness of every small sound: the faint hum of the heater kicking on, the creak of old floorboards, the muted clink of my coffee spoon against the ceramic mug. The "Open" sign hung in the front window, swaying gently in the draft that always seemed to find its way in, but no one had come through the door yet.

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