Chapter one

Clara

Surrounded by people, and yet I always feel alone.

As I push through the bustling cobblestone streets, I curse myself for forgetting the midday rush when deciding to leave for the market.

A tall man elbows me in the nose, and when I cry out, he barely gives me a sideways glance.

I huff, holding my burlap sack closer to my chest and slipping through the cracks of people so I can walk on the outskirts of the walkway.

That’s the third person to accidentally assault me in the last five minutes. It’s getting ridiculous.

It’s always like this. I’m invisible even if I’m not in a crowd.

Of course, my build is partially to blame, considering I’m five feet one and barely occupy space.

I grew up feeling cursed, but my father told me that most people are too caught up with themselves to see what’s right in front of them.

I’d do anything on days like these to hear my father’s sweet voice again.

I sigh and turn off the pathway, deciding that the rest of my errands can wait for a less busy time.

Luckily, there’s a route home through the woods.

It will take longer, but I don’t mind being alone with nature.

I’m always alone. At least in these woods, I can hear the birds and rustles of creatures around me.

It takes me thirty minutes to glimpse my squatty wood cabin in the distance. My heart sings once she comes into view—the home my father built for us—one of the few things I have left of him.

As I push through the oak door, I’m greeted by the scent of the fresh bread I baked this morning.

“I’m home!” I sing, placing my sack on the table and pulling out the new set of paints I picked up.

“Oh, Molly. I forgot to get buttons for the sweater I’m knitting you.

I’ll have to pick them up when I return later this week.

” I walk to the large shelves adhered to the wall, parallel to the windows overlooking the outside greenery.

“Pineo, I have a surprise for you.” I pull the small canister of green paint and the fine-tipped brush from behind my back.

“I told you I’d get that eye taken care of.

” I lean forward with a steady hand, placing a small dot of green paint on the chip in his eye.

“There, all better!” I exclaim, placing my hands on my hips and stepping back to look at my work.

Pineo sits at the center of the shelves, his two eyes back to their matching joyous glow. All around him are other wooden puppets of various shapes, sizes, and species—all beautifully crafted and intricate. But Pineo has always been my favorite.

It’s safe to say that these puppets are my only friend.

My father crafted each one with love and care before he passed away five years ago.

They’ve always held a special place in my heart, but now that I’m alone, their spot is even wider.

Besides my chores, taking care of my puppets consumes all my time, but I always make sure to give Pineo a little bit more of me.

When I was five, my father surprised me with Pineo.

He performed plays for me using a wooden box as a stage.

Pineo was the Prince Charming. My father never crafted me a princess.

He always told me there was no need for two princesses in his kingdom.

Almost twenty years later, I still view Pineo as my prince.

I know he’s not a real man and will never be—I haven’t fallen that crazy yet.

But I like to keep him as the archetype.

If a man doesn’t live up to Pineo's standards, he doesn’t cut it .

Who am I kidding, though? It’s not like there’s a line of men outside just waiting for their chance to date the mousy brunette who still plays with dolls. It’s fine with me, though. My puppets serve as much better company than the smelly, pushy men I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in town.

However, sometimes, an urge takes over me on a cold and rainy night.

I think of the fairytales I grew up reading and imagine what happens after the big true love kiss.

What does it look like when the prince sweeps the princess off her feet and brings her back to his castle?

I’ve never been with a man, but I’ve seen the dirty pictures hidden behind the town bookstore.

I’ve witnessed couples embracing in alleys in the dead of night, their hands lingering in forbidden places.

I may dislike men, but I wouldn’t mind being touched like that—in the way my fingers dance across my skin when my loneliness takes hold of me.

I spend the rest of my evening sipping tea by the fire, looking out at the forest as the sky grays and opens up, gradually turning into a heavy rain. The cold seeps in, beating the fire’s attempts, and I curl up with an old quilt, glancing at my wooden puppets. Pineo’s eye catches my attention.

I sure did a good job repairing his eye.

He’s so handsome, even as a wooden doll.

He has a strong jaw, a large nose, and his brown horsehair just grazes his painted-on eyebrows.

If he was a human, he’d be my type. I stand, holding my quilt around my shoulders, grab Pineo off the shelf, and kiss his wooden face before placing him back in his spot.

“Oh, Pineo. If only you were real. I know you wouldn’t ignore me.

I’m sure of it.” I shuffle back to my spot in my chair and lie down, capturing his wooden eyes across the room.

There’s always been something about them, even when he had the chip. It’s why he’s my favorite.

The rain subsides, and I turn to look out the window.

The sky clears, and bright stars shine through the black.

One star stands out amongst the rest, bright and beautiful.

My eyes droop as I stare at the light. “Oh, I wish Pineo was real,” I mutter as my consciousness blinks out, my dreams of my wooden man already pulling me under.