Threads Of The White Lands

Laying on the ground, taking the rotting planks as its own stolen mattress, a motionless doll dressed in a red robe, gifted by this odd concept that is life, exhales.
Its wooden face, arms, legs, and hands are covered by damaged clothing named skin.A faint hum accompanies every exhale, a single sustained note.
It goes against the wind's; it makes memories of the birds' chants scream, a twisted note that defies any laws evolution settled.

A rebellion, we call it, a forced act against nature itself.
A false promise of freedom, innovation they dared to name it.

A music box.