Vincent Charbonneau lived alone in a tiny stone cottage at the edge of a village forgotten by time. His home, perched on the cusp of a thick forest, sat like an old relic among the whispering trees. The villagers would often come to him to marvel at the toys he crafted—wooden marionettes, delicate clockwork animals, and small mechanical wonders that moved with a life of their own. His hands, skilled and practiced, breathed life into what was otherwise lifeless.
But no matter how exquisite the toys were, no matter how much joy they brought to the village children, Vincent always returned to the same hollow home, the same cold bed, the same endless quiet.
Vincent was not fully human. His ancestors had once mingled with creatures of the forest—fair folk, it was said, with eyes of glass and voices like the rustling leaves. Vincent carried the weight of that lineage in his veins. His eyes were darker than pitch, his skin too pale to be of any living thing, and his hair, always falling into his face, framed the gauntness of his expression. His gifts for creation were unnatural, some whispered, but none dared voice it aloud. His work was too beloved to question.
Still, Vincent felt the distance. He always had.
One cold winter evening, as the fire crackled softly in the hearth, Vincent sat hunched over his workbench, carving yet another toy, yet another thing that would never speak to him, never understand him. His fingers traced over the delicate wood, whittling it down to form what would become a small marionette—a puppet, but more than just a toy. This time, he wanted something real. He wanted a companion. Something that would share his thoughts, his quiet days, his lonely nights. He wanted a friend, or more than a friend. Something that could love him, as broken as he was.
And so, he began to carve with a fervor that startled even himself. Each stroke of his knife gave form to something more than a toy. This puppet was different. It was slender and strong, with broad shoulders and fine limbs. The face was expressive, even in its stillness. Auburn curls were carved into its head, and two moles adorned the right cheek. Vincent fashioned clothes for the puppet, making it look almost human.
He named it **Rody**.
For days, Vincent spent every waking moment perfecting Rody. He would sit with it by the fire, whispering secrets to the lifeless thing. At night, he would dream of its voice, low and hesitant, but warm. He imagined its laughter, the feel of its wooden hand in his. In those dreams, Vincent wasn’t alone anymore. He wasn’t the strange toymaker that even the children seemed wary of when the light hit him just so.
But no matter how beautiful Rody was, no matter how perfect, it remained still. A husk of the love Vincent longed for.
One night, as Vincent stared into the puppet’s blank eyes, he wept. Tears stained the wood, but nothing changed. He was a master of crafting things with life, but he couldn’t create a soul.
And then, a voice—soft and melodic, but sharp as a knife—echoed through his cottage.
"I can give it life, you know," the voice said.
Vincent froze, his head snapping toward the sound. In the dim light of the fire, a figure stood in the doorway. Cloaked in shadow, she wore a veil that obscured her face, but her eyes—her eyes gleamed with an unnatural brightness.
"A witch," Vincent whispered.
She stepped forward, her movements fluid like smoke. "Loneliness is a powerful thing, Vincent Charbonneau. It eats at a man. It gnaws at the soul until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell." She paused, her eyes falling to Rody. "But I can give you what you want. I can make him real."
Vincent's heart leaped into his throat. "How?"
The witch smiled beneath her veil, though there was no kindness in it. "Every gift requires a sacrifice. I will give him life in exchange for something of yours."
