Opaline

Opaline’s face was once cleanly broken in two—shattered down the nose and across her mouth. When her young owner, Clara Wren, found her in pieces, she refused to let the doll go. She whispered to her for nights on end, praying she would heal.

Weeks later, the fracture began to close. Not with glue or plaster, but with something dark and organic, like the skin of a wound trying to knit itself. The porcelain warped, blistered, and fused in a way that looked almost human.

When Clara’s parents found the doll again, she was smiling weakly—one side smooth and lovely, the other uneven and glossy, as though sealed by melted wax. Clara had vanished. A small patch of flesh was found stuck to the doll’s cheek.

Opaline emits a faint warmth when held too long, and a sticky residue sometimes seeps from the healed line. Owners report hearing wet breathing or soft, rhythmic sighs when she’s left in darkness.

Over time, her expression appears to shift—one moment pitying, the next resentful. Those who dream near her often wake with their lips numb or the taste of blood in their mouth, as if they, too, had begun to mend from something unseen.

It is said that Opaline envies unbroken faces.