After the discovery, silence became my companion once more—this time, wrapped not in water, but in air.
I was no longer at the bottom of the sea.
I could feel warmth now, the hum of machines, the faint vibration of human footsteps against the floor.
They had placed me inside a glass case, under bright lamps that mimicked sunlight. And though I could not move, I could see again—the faces of men and women leaning close, their eyes reflecting curiosity, fascination, and greed.
They called me an artifact, a miracle of preservation. None of them spoke my name.
No one remembered me.
And then one day, they sent me away.
---
The journey was gentle—a crate, softly padded, the steady rhythm of a truck engine. When the lid opened again, I was greeted by the scent of sawdust and varnish.
A man stood over me, not young, but steady-handed. His name was Arthur Bellamy, a craftsman of dolls, known for restoring antiques. His workshop was small, cluttered with porcelain faces, wooden limbs, and brushes soaked in color.
When he saw me, his expression changed from curiosity to reverence.
> "Good heavens…" he whispered.
"You're… perfect."
He wore magnifying lenses as he examined me, his gloved hands trembling slightly. He brushed away the remnants of ocean residue, careful not to damage a single detail. I could feel every faint vibration of his touch through the porcelain shell that had been my body for more than a century.
> "The joints," he murmured. "They're articulated—too fine for an 18th-century design. Who could've made this?"
He took notes. He tested samples of my paint. He compared my craftsmanship to records of dollmakers through history.
But nothing matched.
> "It's as if you were made by someone who knew… techniques that didn't exist yet," he said one night, his voice tired but fascinated. "You're an impossibility."
If only he knew how right he was.
---
Days passed like whispered dreams. Arthur worked tirelessly, repairing and documenting every inch of me. He spoke often—not to anyone in particular, but to the silence of the workshop.
I became his audience, his confidant.
> "You remind me of my daughter," he said softly one evening. "She passed away when she was eight. Used to sit right there, by that window, sewing clothes for her dolls. I suppose I fix them now because… I couldn't fix her."
His words settled into me like dust. Grief recognizes grief, even through porcelain.
He smiled faintly, brushing a finger over my cheek.
> "You'd have liked her, I think. She believed dolls could dream."
For a heartbeat, I almost believed it too.
---
Sometimes, in the quiet hours when Arthur worked alone, I thought I could see faint shapes moving at the edge of my vision—the ghosts that had followed me from the deep. They drifted between shelves and glass eyes, whispering softly.
Arthur never saw them.
But I did.
One night, he held a magnifier close to my face, examining the tiny signature carved inside the hollow of my neck. His breath caught.
> "Jacob Moreau," he read aloud. "Who… who was that?"
The name felt like a distant echo returning to me, a thread stretched through centuries.
For the first time in so long, someone had spoken my name again.
I wanted to scream, to tell him I'm right here, to move even a finger.
But nothing happened.
Only silence.
---
Weeks later, the letter arrived. Arthur read it carefully, sighing through his mustache.
> "The museum wants you," he said. "They think you'll be safer there."
He packed me gently, lining the crate with velvet. Before closing the lid, he leaned down, his face soft with affection.
> "Wherever you came from," he murmured, "I hope you find your way home."
The lid shut.
Darkness again.
But this time, I didn't feel fear.
Because I realized something—Arthur had spoken my name, had seen me in a way no one had since Elias Vinter. And for the first time in over a century, I felt a faint pulse stir inside my hollow chest…
Not movement.
Not life.
But remembrance.