THE PUPPET PUPPETEER . [ᴛɪɢ - ɢ. ᴅ. ʜᴀᴡᴛʜᴏʀɴᴇ]

{𝚡𝚒𝚒𝚒}

-ˏ ༻❁༺ ˎ-
'ˡᵉᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗᵒʳᵐ ʳᵃᵍᵉ ᵒⁿ ⁽ᵗʷ: ᵍᵒʳᵉ, ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ,ᵍᵘⁿ⁾'

-ˋ ༻❁༺ ˊ-

I left that box exactly where it was, exactly how it was.

Oren was taking Ave to the Hawthorne foundation, for training with Zara, since she was to inherit it. But why I was called, I had not a clue. 

Throughout the drive, my mind kept going to the box. To what was inside it. Cotton, ash, and fabric. All drenched in blood. The only way I had identified the ash and fabric was because some managed to escape the clutches of the crimson liquid and seek refuge and the side of the container.

Why did a five-year-old have all of that in her puzzle box?
Why did a five-year-old have the ability to make that puzzle box in the first place?

Just who are you, Sarina Elizabeth Salva?

The scenery went a blur as we neared the foundation. The building was another architectural beauty that signified grace and power. Hmm, now who does that remind me of?

I stepped into the lobby of the Hawthorne Foundation. The walls were a light silvery-gray, and dozens of massive black-and-white photographs hung on them, seemingly suspended midair. Hundreds of smaller prints surrounded the larger ones. People. From all over the world, captured in motion and moments, from all angles, all perspectives, diverse along every dimension imaginable—age and gender and race and culture. People. Laughing, crying, praying, playing, eating, dancing, sleeping, sweeping, embracing—everything.

This place was like a museum to every moment in history, the present, and maybe the future.

"Ms. Grambs." An assistant greeted, "I believe you are here to meet with Mr. Hawthorne and your sister?" I simply nodded and let him lead the way, my mind too entranced by the beautiful photographs. The man led me to a conference room, lined with maps: first a world map, then each continent, then broken down by countries, all the way down to states and towns.

And in the middle, sitting in a chair was my dear Avie. And Armani lord too, I guess.

I walked up to her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and leaned down to place my chin on her head, "Hey, nerd." I nuzzled my dolled-up face against hers, taking in her giggles. 

"Hey, dork," she pat my arm as I pulled back and took a seat beside her.

"What are you guys doing?" I asked as I propped my elbow on the table and placed my cheeks on it. I glanced at Grayson, giving him the gift of acknowledging his existence, even if for the briefest of moments.

"Charts," replied Avery, "What are you doing here?"

I was about to give her a lazy 'dunno' but Pretty Boy beat me to it, "Your sister is here as per my aunt's instructions to give her some insight on the matter of analytics and statistics of the Foundation."

"In short," I pouted at him, "I'm in detention. Or worse, math class." I made a little show of me shuddering at the mere thought of logistics and mathematics. Avery snorted and smacked me, causing me to lose balance on my elbow and hit my chin on the table, "Ow!"

Grayson's lips twitched up. Oh no, that devilish smirk on a pretty face was never good news.

"Well then, Doll," And he's using the nickname. I knew there was no escaping this—him when he said, "You might want to get comfortable. We have a hundred and fifty-six charts to go through..."

"And they all have your name on it."

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