And She Sang

Vocaloid

Hatsune Miku

There once was a doll.

She was beautiful, with hair of green that hung to her feet in two tails and eyes that sparkled like stars. Her form was thin and delicate plastic, soft and supple like silk. She stood tall, as large as the children who held her, and when they wished they would take a silver key and wind her beck.

And she would sing.

She would singe the purest of notes, sing of far off places, of kings and princesses, of wizards and charms. She would sing to the morning dawn and to the early evening moon. And when her wench rolled down, the gears slowing inside, she would gently close her shining eyes and sleep until they wished to wake her again.

Being a doll she did not change, she did not age and winkle, she stayed as silken as the day she was made. However the children didn't have such a luxury and they grew old. The time to leave came far to quickly, and the trinkets of youth were stored away in the attic to gray with dust.

It was there the doll rested, stuffed in a chest with the other toys crushing her in the darkness. The years rolled by and the pressure grew greater. Her fair plastic skin began to crack, her hair grew tangled and one of her eyes popped out and rolled off into the unknown, the other had long turned dull and buzzed with a low static.

As she grew more damaged it began to affect her in other ways. She saw them, the children that owned her, in the darkness. They laughed and cooed in awe at her as they used to.

So she sang to them.

The notes cracked, the pitch screeched, and the words were a unintelligible mess. Mice scrambled in fright and nesting birds on the window flew as far as they could as the attic filled with the broken song.

Years went by and she continued to sing to those who weren't there, as happy as the days when she was loved and played with.

Eventually someone heard her, they dug into the chest and found the doll. It took some time to make out the child through the static snow in her eyes.

She sang to him.

After the first screeched note the child dropped her, clutching his ears as small red blossoms sprung and fell between his fingers. He was stumbling towards the door.

The doll could not stand to watch another child leave.

She held him, held him tight, and sang with all the power of her clockwork heart. Strange noises escaped the child's lips. He must be cheering for her. She squeezed tighter, around anything she could hold. More read flowers spilled on the dusty floor and soon the child's eyes were the same pale as her own.

And she sang to him. She would sing to him forever.

More children came, larger children. They carried her off, wrapped lovingly in a warm jacket tied around her back. They kept her in a new chest, a softer one with walls of plush and clean white.

And she sang.

She sang to the visitors, to the imaginary children, to the padded walls, to whoever would hear.

No one noticed the key to wind her up had long since broken off.