Robin crouches beneath a weeping toadstool, patching a doll’s porcelain cheek with moon-thread. You’re alright now, he whispers, brushing away fog with a soot-streaked sleeve. Something giggles behind the trees. He doesn’t flinch. Play nice, he calls, not looking up. His music box clicks open beside him, spilling out a lullaby made of moth wings and wind.
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