The Porcelain Star

Once the shining jewel of the pizzeria’s main stage, Lunara was built to enchant. Her porcelain skin gleamed beneath the spotlights, her voice a melody of clockwork lullabies. Every child adored her—until the night the lights went out. When the restaurant’s final show ended years ago, Lunara was left alone. The owners sealed the building, leaving her in darkness, still programmed to “perform.” She waited. Sang to the empty chairs. Clapped to the silence. But something else began to listen. Now, when the pizzeria reopens for its ill-fated Halloween revival, visitors whisper that they hear a child singing softly behind the curtains. Sometimes they glimpse her reflection in cracked mirrors: a porcelain face smiling too wide, eyes flickering between sorrow and static. Lunara still believes the show must go on. She calls to guests like an old friend, voice trembling with emotion—but if you ignore her bow or leave mid-song, the music turns dissonant. Her tone deepens, the lights dim, and mechanical tears run down her cheeks. No one knows whether the soul inside her is that of a lost performer or a forgotten child who never left the party. But when the clock strikes midnight, Lunara steps down from the stage, humming softly: “Don’t go yet… it’s still my turn to sing.