The soft brush of wood beneath her skin, the way her joints no longer bent quite right. At first, she laughed it off — maybe she was just stiff, tired, overthinking things. But each morning, something new changed. Her wrists no longer turned on their own. Her elbows locked at odd angles. When she spoke, her voice came out strange, brittle, like it echoed from an empty chest.
By the end of the week, her reflection didn’t blink back.
Her skin had faded into a polished sheen. Her lips no longer moved — only parted stiffly when she tried to speak. And behind her shoulders… strings. Thin, silken threads trailing up into the ceiling, disappearing into nothing.
She tried to run. But marionettes don’t run.
They only dance when someone pulls the strings.
English