A/N:

Hello, dear reader!

I see my fic has caught your attention, and may I say it's wonderful to know you think it's worth a read (or even just a quick peak). I'm also hoping it means the summary hooked you in, 'cause I was so nervous that it wouldn't be good enough and that no one would give this story a chance because it was so lame and...

I digress.

You're here, that's all that matters. I earnestly hope you will enjoy it. And if you did, or didn't, feel free to write about it as a review. I can't tell you how much reviews mean to fanfic writers. It would certainly be a good indication to continue this fanfiction.

Enjoy the story, Sweeties!

The Kind Doll-maker

Tom Dupain was well-known in Paris, affectionately called "Mr. Doll" by all who knew him. Why he was called as such was due to his line of work; Tom made toys. He was a doll maker, one of the best in the 19th century. The dolls he made weren't made of canvas or cloth, nor were they of tin or clay. They had no stuffing and didn't have buttons for eyes. Tom's dolls weren't anything like that, no sir, Tom's dolls were made of porcelain. What kind of porcelain?

Every kind imaginable.

If one could name it, Tom probably had it. The man was never short on any kind of porcelain for his dolls. Whether it was soft porcelain or bone porcelain, which his wife's cousin imported from China, he always had plenty to spare. Sometimes, he had more porcelain than he knew what to do with, so he'd sell the surplus to fellow doll-makers. He was never short on moulds either. Unlike other porcelain dolls sold in shops, Tom insisted on variety. It was rare to see more than three dolls with the same proportions. There were always dolls that were taller, always ones that were shorter. Some were curvy, others slim, some round, some angled.

Such unique dolls caught the attention of many children. There was never a day when Tom's doll shop was empty. Little girls and even boys with their parents would come in to see his creations. Most of them bought, others reserved. The wealthier customers custom-ordered. Tom catered to all of them with a grin on his face. His reputation as "Mr. Doll" grew large enough that every now and then a customer from another European country came just to buy one of his dolls. These visitors paid him twice as much; they sometimes came back for a second doll. This made Tom very happy.

What didn't make him happy was when toy stores would suggest he mass-produce his dolls. Their reasons seemed sound: if Tom made more dolls in a day, he'd make more money. But Tom would never agree.

He believed that all his dolls had to be as unique as the children that bought them.

Such a belief inevitably cost Tom more money for all the moulds he had to make, but Sabine Cheng his loving wife supported him entirely. She ran a bakery next to his doll shop, which had an adjoining door to each spouse's place of business. While Tom would be hard at work on his dolls, Sabine would be labouring over her ovens to produce fresh bread. The income they made was more than enough to sustain them, with plenty of excess money for other plans.

Tom had one such plan.

"My dear, you know I love you." Tom told Sabine one night after closing their shops. Sabine hummed in return and leaned into her husband. "But dear, it must be terribly lonely to have to work all by yourself in your bakery, while I am in my workshop making my dolls." He took his wife's tiny hands in his, gently stroking them with a thumb. He looked into her eyes with all the adoration he had felt for her all the years they were together.

"I am not lonely, Tom. I know you are right there, right next door." She chuckled softly.

"That does little to ease my worry." Tom sighed.

"Then what will, my love?"

A smile, as kind and warm as his soul, spread across the doll maker's face. He squeezed his wife's hand ever tighter, and whispered, "Our own little doll." Tom watched as his wife's eyes widened and then sparkle in mutual understanding. She said nothing but merely leaned into him more. Tom enveloped her in an all-consuming embrace. "She will be the prettiest doll in the world." Sabine smiled at her husband.

"I have no doubt about that."

~•~•~•~•~•~

True to Tom's word, Sabine gave birth to what might have been the prettiest baby alive – or at least to a very proud father she was. His little doll seemed to be Sabine's spitting image. From the angled, blue eyes to the tiny frame, she was like a miniature version of his wife.

Sabine, however, saw Tom in her daughter. Though angled, her daughter's eyed were wide and full of wonder, just like Tom's were. Sabine heard his laugh when her child would giggle, see his kindness in her smile. Whatever the couple would say to one another, one thing was clear: their daughter was absolutely perfect.

"Mariet … My little doll, my little baker." Sabine smiled, pressing her lips against the softness of her daughter's cheek.

~•~•~•~•~•~

Tom's life could never have been any happier than it was when Mariet began helping around. Even though the girl was young, Mariet was eager to assist Sabine out in the bakery. Most days Sabine let her roll the dough or mix the batter. When there wasn't much to bake, the bluenette manned the counter, cheerfully greeting the customers that came by. They all loved the little girl. Every time a regular dropped by, they always had some sort of treat to give Mariet.

And every time she was given a treat, the little bluenette was quick to share it with her parents, much to Tom and Sabine's amusement. Mariet visited Tom when Sabine didn't need her help. Tom loved those visits. It became a highlight during the day.

"Papa, lookah what I made!" A tiny bluenette scrambled into Tom's shop, a smile smudged with flour beaming up at the doll maker. In Mariet's hand was a piece of bread, its crust a perfect golden brown with wisps of smoke steaming out of it. "I made cheese bread all by mahself!"she giggled.

Tom got up from his desk and went to inspect his daughter's creation. "Ooh la la! My little doll, you are a little baking prodigy!" he grinned, ruffling the child's hair with a hand, to which she squealed in delight. "Mama should be careful!" he leaned in to whisper, "You might be a better baker than her and only at five years old, too!"

"Wait until you taste it." Sabine appeared in the doorway, sending Tom a playful glare. He chuckled in reply.

Mariet beamed and pushed her bread into his hand. "Ah made it for you, papa! Tell me if it's tasty! Like mama's bread!" she said.

Tom popped the little cheese bread in his mouth. The crust made a satisfying crunch as he chewed it, giving way to the soft interior that held a small bit of melted cheese. The saltiness was a perfect balancer with the sweetness of the dough. "Mmm! This might be the best bread I've - " Tom suddenly bit into something hard.

"Oh? What is this…..crunchy bit in it?" He looked at his daughter.

"That's the eggshell! Mama says that bread should have texture in it, papa!" Mariet grinned, pointing at a smugly smiling Sabine.

"I did help her a little bit on that one." Sabine shrugged.

In all honesty, the bread still tasted good – and the eggshell did add some texture to it. He swallowed the rest of it and gave Mariet a pat on the head. "That's very interesting, my little doll, but I think the crust was more than enough texture." His arms wrapped around her little body and pulled her into a big bear hug. She returned the gesture, although with her small arms, she could only hug his arm.

"If you say so, papa!" Mariet giggled.

~•~•~•~•~•~

As Mariet's ninth birthday came and went, Tom began to notice two small changes in his daughter.

The first change came in her growing interest in his line of work. The little girl's visits became more frequent than before. He would see her come in and out of his shop, sometimes while she was still helping Sabine, and comment on some of his designs. Oh, but not on the doll's build, no, Mariet was not interested in such things.

Her eyes were for the clothes designs.

Tom had many papers filled with those. Though he wasn't a prodigy at drawing, Tom's sketches were still nice to look at; at least they clearly showed the designs.

But Mariet would look at them, peer at every detail with her sharp eyes.

She would find something off about them, perhaps the colors used were too conflicting, or the lace was too excessive. She would point all these out to him, following up with small suggestions on how they could be altered to look better.

He humoured her at first.

"Well, my little doll, why don't you try making your own designs? You can show them to me, and perhaps I might use them," he had told her with a chuckle. Mariet had lit up at the proposition and he watched, bemused, as she hurried away to grab her pencil and papers.

She ended up making him ten designs that day, and he ended up using all of them.

From then on, he let Mariet give him her dress designs. He warned her not to let it get in the way of helping Sabine, but it was otherwise a welcomed help to him. Her interest in his work was endearing, and comical when he thought about it. His little doll, making dresses for dolls. It sounded like something one would read in a fairy tale book, no?

It was four months after this development that Tom noticed the second change.

It was subtle at first, something anyone could miss without much effort. He noticed it in her increasingly sluggish behaviour and the need to take naps more and more. When she wasn't napping, Mariet would sit down as often as she could. Sabine noticed the girl's diminishing appetite, and how even the smell of her favourite soup did little to perk it up.

Her skin was getting paler, too.

She was looking more and more like the porcelain dolls he sold. If a stranger saw her sitting down on a chair, they would surely mistake her for one of them. It was a frightening thought, but it was obvious that the little girl was coming down with something. Something terrible. Tom and Sabine were just about to arrange a visit from a local doctor one day when they heard something.

THUD.

They both rushed upstairs, to where the noise came from. Their hearts were held in fear's grip as they ran to their daughter's room, where they knew the noise had come from, where they wished it hadn't come from. Tom swung the door open with such force that it was nearly ripped off its hinges. His eyes fell upon what, who, had fell, and all at once the warmth left his body.

Sabine ran forward with a cry, tears welling up in her eyes.

He saw her cradle their daughter.

His little doll.

His only daughter.

~•~•~•~•~•~

Loss was a painful thing to get through.

More so when the thing lost was not a 'what' but a 'who'.

More so when that someone was family.

Especially more so when that family member was one's child.

But for Tom, a father who had loved his daughter with every last bit of him, loss was absolutely crippling. It wasn't fair, he thought. His daughter was so young, too young, to leave this world. There was so much more she was going to experience. There were so many things she was going to see. There were so many futures she was going to have.

Going to.

Tom hated those words now. To him, they were empty promises that life had made to his daughter, ones that life probably knew would never be kept and yet still promised. He knew, deep down, that blaming life for the tragedy was selfish, childish even.

But his daughter was gone now and he had more grief than he knew what to do with.

Mariet was taken from him and his wife so suddenly, without any warning, that he was barely able to register the loss until he finally saw his little doll in her coffin. There she had been lain, encased with white cloth and wearing a dress he had made for her. Her eyes, whose cheerful shine brightened up so many of his days, were now closed in a final slumber. That was when the tears fell down. They were as if all the sorrow he had silently kept were leaking out, glistening like dying stars as they fell to the ground. For all the strength he had, Tom was barely able to stay standing. It was Sabine who got him through it.

She held on to him as tightly as he held her.

She too was crying, but the Chinese woman's composure did not falter. It should have though. His wife had more right than him to wail in pain and collapse from the grief of losing their daughter. She had birthed Mariet after all, carried the little girl in her womb for nine months. She and her daughter had been one being for a time. There was no doubt in his mind that this was tearing Sabine up just as much as it was for him. Maybe even more. Yet she stood there with him, keeping him standing, being his support through the whole ordeal, and when he caught her gaze, he knew.

It was for him.

Just as she had many years ago, Sabine was keeping him steady. His wife, who barely reached his chest in height, was the only thing that kept him from losing all reason and succumbing to the grief. She had always known that he was more sensitive to these kind of things, that his heart was fragile despite his size. Sabine knew this and she was putting her own grief aside so his own would be soothed.

Tom choked on his words as his wife stroked his hand with hers.

"My Sabine…." His voice came out cracked and trembling. He pulled her into a tight hug, cradling her within his arms as he did. "Let me carry your burden this time.." He felt her tiny arms grip the back of his coat, felt her body tremble against his, and finally heard her soft sobs as he sheltered her from the grief they were both experiencing.

Loss was indeed a painful thing to get through.

It crippled them both.

~•~•~•~•~•~

Tom found it difficult to make dolls.

He could see his daughter in every doll he made, and the pain that came with it halted any further progress. He would try to push the pain aside, keep his concentration on his work, but all that would disappear the moment he would look at the doll he was making. The porcelain skin was too familiar, the sparkling eyes too similar. It made him shudder and he would end up benching the doll for "another time".

Sabine fared better than him, but only slightly. She at least was able to run the bakery smoothly. Bread was made on time and orders were always completed. But sometimes he would see her work, and he would see her rolling the dough.

"Could you pass me the cutter, Mari-" she would say but then cut herself short and let out a sad, empty chuckle.

There had been multiple times since then that she would call out for their daughter, only to remember the reality of their situation. Every time it happened, Tom could see the light in his wife's eyes dim just ever so slightly. When it seemed that she would not be getting any better, he made a big decision.

His wife needed him now more than ever, and what she needed was company to fill in the gap left from their little doll's passing. It was because of this that he decided to stop making dolls and focus all his attention on his wife and her bakery.

Sabine protested at the idea at first. She told him that it was his passion, his business.

"Ah, but my dear, I'm afraid I cannot bring myself to make a doll anymore, much less look at one." Was his soft response.

With that, Tom's toy store closed down, replaced as an expanded display room for the bakery. Baking bread and pastries with his wife was apparently what he, what they, both needed. They could get lost into their thoughts as they'd prepare the bread, but take comfort in the knowledge of the other's presence. Business was still good despite the loss of one store. The people of Paris were mostly respectful of the couple's decisions. A few people occasionally tried to order a doll from Tom, but each try ended up the same way: rejected.

For ten years the Dupain-Cheng's lived like this.

The pain still stayed with them both but they found solace in each other and their lives still had some joy to it. They found joy in baking bread together. They felt it when their customers thanked them. They even felt it when children came to buy sweets from the shop – a joy that came with forlorn nostalgia. Through it all, Tom and Sabine kept on going. If not for themselves, they did it for their daughter. They believed it would be an insult if they lived unhappy lives when their daughter didn't even get to live that long. Perhaps, they thought, if they lived happily, their daughter would be happy as well.

It was this thought that brought them the most joy and kept them going for years more.

~•~•~•~•~•~

Tom was nearing the twilight of his life, and although he could still move around just fine and had no illness to deal with, he could feel a certain tiredness in his bones, one that always came with old age. Being tired all time got in the way with taking care of a bakery though. He found it more difficult to keep up with the demands selling bread brought. Sabine had similar problem as well, but she was much more stubborn than Tom, so she kept working despite it.

They eventually decided it was time to find someone to help them out, someone young and with the strength that youth gave with them. Bernard Dupain was the perfect candidate for the position. The son to Tom's younger brother, Bernard was a lover of all things baked – and preferably sweet. He would be twenty-four in the coming fall, and with experience as an employee from several other bakeries, Bernard knew the business like the back of his hand.

Tom knew that the bakery would be in good hands with the lad. Sabine knew that too, so it was less than a day later that they sent a letter to the young man with their proposition.

Bernard arrived at the bakery a week later with a couple of suitcases and an energetic smile.

"I hope I didn't take too long getting here, Uncle Tom. I packed up as soon I finished reading your letter." The brunette said with small grin.

"Too long? Why, we didn't think you'd be here till next Wednesday!" Tom chuckled.

Sabine ushered Bernard in and showed him to his room, and a few minutes later, showed him around the bakery. "Most of the cutters and preparation tools are kept in this cabinet over here, but bowls and other containers are over in this cabinet. Flour sacks are in the cabinet next to it." She pointed to every place that the young man would need to remember, and Bernard would nod, and silently make note of it.

It wasn't long before the bakery had three people to run it. Output doubled because of the extra help and, consequently, so did the income. A lot of the expenses Tom and Sabine used to worry about also decreased, what with Bernard's ever ingenious ideas on how to improve production. Tom was more than happy to step down as Sabine's assistant in the kitchen, opting to man the front desk most days and to greet regulars and newcomers alike with his gentle and friendly grins – something he seemed to be doing more ever since Bernard came to help.

Sabine seemed to feel years younger with the youth around, that Tom noticed as well. The woman would eagerly share her recipes and tricks to the boy, who in turn earnestly learned them, all while commenting on how good she was at this.

"Well," Sabine would say, "When you run a bakery for forty-three years, bread-making comes as naturally as breathing."

Tom felt his wife's pride in the young boy whenever he made something new for the bakery. His jam-filled bread was a hit with the children, as were his melon-flavored buns. Customers were never shy on complimenting Tom's nephew, all of which made him beam brightly and made his days all the better. Perhaps this was what it felt like, the pride a parent felt when their child…..

Whenever his thoughts wandered there, Tom would shake his head. No, he said to himself, no more sad thoughts about that.

And yet, even after all this time – and even with Bernard's presence – he still could not forget the one who was no longer with them. He could not forget his little doll. It seemed silly that he was still moping about such a thing when it had been so long since that day. Sabine had all but accepted it by that point. Sure, she still mourned on the anniversary of their daughter's death, but his wife had moved on and now focused on teaching Bernard as much as she could. Why couldn't he?

Tom thought long and hard about the reason. It spanned for five days and five nights. He needed closure; that was obvious. But for the life of him he did not know how. He pondered over what method he should use, or in the very least what kept him from moving on. The answer came to him on the sixth day when a girl and her mother walked into the bakery.

The girl, who seemed no older than six years old came up to the counter and asked if there was any jam bread available. He looked down at her and replied that a fresh batch would be out in a few minutes.

"Oh, good! I need about twenty pieces for a tea party," she giggled happily.

"A tea party? How fancy! What an honor to know our jam breads will be used!" he smiled.

"Of course! It's my favourite bread in the whole city! Oh, and Patty's, too." She pointed at the porcelain doll she had been clutching to her chest. Tom's eyes recognized the doll. After all, it was one of the dolls he had made years ago. He felt his heart tighten just looking at the fragile thing. Too fragile.

Like his Mariet was.

After the girl and her mother had left, Tom could only imagine the doll. Oh yes, he thought, I used to make dolls. His old age took from him many memories of his youth. He hadn't minded all that much, but now that he remembered what he had forgotten, and how important that memory was, he cursed his old age. He knew that he used to make dolls for a living, but then he would forget about it. Only to remember it a few days later. He must have forgotten about it again until today. "I used to make dolls," he repeated in a hushed voice, "but I stopped making them when Mariet …"

It made sense. Foggy as his memory was about his previous occupation, the image of his daughter remained crisp and clear. But what if it didn't? What if he would wake up one day and find that he could not remember what his daughter looked like? Would his child fade in and out of memory as easily as his doll-making? Would the child he lost be forgotten like the job that was once his passion and joy?

Such thoughts made him shiver.

He could not bear such thoughts, that his daughter would be forgotten. No, he would not let her.

So that very night, when both his wife and nephew were sound asleep, he made his way to a room, one he had not visited in over forty years. His workshop looked to be untouched by time, save for a few cobwebs and a sheen of dust over everything. He patted off some of the dust from his work table, and grabbed a pencil and paper from the drawer beneath it.

He sketched out a little girl on this piece of parchment, one whose eyes sparkled a dazzling blue, and whose hair was like the evening sky. Her cheeks were flushed with the lightest pink, something that happened often since she laughed and giggled so much. Tom remembered how her pigtails would bounce around as she ran about, how the red ribbons that kept them up would come undone after too much of it.

She wore a blue summer dress with a light pink undershirt, which could be seen since she always forgot to button her dress all the way up. Her shoes, a matching shade of pink with dark blue lace, completed the outfit. But that wasn't the most important part of the design. It was a single line, one that stretched daintily over the girl's face that mattered most, for the girl he sketched could never look like his daughter without her brilliant smile.

~•~•~•~•~•~

Three months went by in a blink of an eye, and Tom spent all that time in the workshop, tinkering with the modelling clay so that it would make for a perfect mould. There were already moulds for the body and limbs, but the head was yet to be seen. He had made at least a dozen models by then, all deemed unworthy in his artisan eye in capturing the essence of his daughter, and so they piled up in the corner. His current one seemed doomed to join the others as well, if his increasing frown was any indication. "The cheeks just aren't the right shape…" he grumbled under his breath. His large hands were surprisingly diligent with the tiny chisel he held, and it was with this diligence that he carved deeper into the clay.

Sabine, who had been concerned about his decision at first, came to his aid when he could not remember the exact details of Mariet's face – his old age was already beginning to fade her image in his mind. She brought a small box for him, and in its contents held what he needed: pictures of their daughter, who stared up through the photographs with the same happy grin that had brightened his days long ago.

But even with the picture he had, Tom could not carve the perfect face for a mould, and it frustrated him greatly. He tossed the rejected clay head with all the others, and it reverberated with a hollow thud that echoed through the room. With a sigh, he leaned back into his chair, one hand absently scratching his white beard, the other twirling the chisel between his fingers.

"Uncle Tom?"

His nephew's voice had him turn around. Bernard had appeared by the door, a tray of biscuits and tea in his hands, and walked up beside the brooding old man.

The brunette gently placed the tray on the desk before shooting a small smile at Tom.

"I take it from the noise that the new one was no good?" he inquired.

"Sadly, yes. I cannot seem to get the smile right." Tom sighed and picked up a chocolate biscuit. "I can remember her smile and I have pictures of her smiling all over my desk, but I cannot capture it in these blasted clay heads!" He bit angrily down on his snack, breaking the biscuit in two with a loud sound.

He watched his nephew look over the very photos he mentioned. Bernard scanned each one with interest, humming softly as he went by each one.

If Tom's memory was accurate, which seemed highly doubtful, he had a picture of Bernard and Mariet somewhere there. It was one taken during her eight birthday, where his little doll had dragged the poor twelve-year old boy to the kitchen to sample a new type of cookie she had made. Funny enough, Bernard had found the cookies delicious and the picture was taken as they both chowed down on a plate full of them.

"Ah, here it is." Bernard picked up that very same picture.

A small smile came across his nephew's face. "Those were the tastiest cookies I ever had," the young man confessed and chuckled as he inspected the picture closer. "I ended up loving breads and pastries ever since. I suppose I have Mariet to thank for that…" Bernard carefully placed the photo back with the others, and turned his smile to Tom.

"I've been trying to replicate those cookies for years now actually. Sort of my way of remembering her, but I never seem to get it right either." The brunette picked up one biscuit and nibbled on it slightly. Tom could see the all too familiar nostalgia in the young man's eyes. "I'm getting closer though, I'm sure of it. Maybe one day, I'll finally get the right taste and, when that day comes, uncle, will you let me sell it in the bakery?"

Tom felt his heart warm up at his nephew's words. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder, and giving a reassuring squeeze, he replied, "It would be the kindest thing you could do for her."

Bernard left shortly after that, leaving Tom to his mould-making. The next one he worked on took a lot longer to finish; this time he wouldn't rush himself. He made it a point that every strike meant something, that each piece of clay he chipped away would not be wasted. He took more breaks, too, and he used those times to look at the photographs, remembering the stories and the happy memories that were kept with them.

Slowly the clay head's features became more poignant and pronounced. The details of the cheeks and chin were taking shape as well. And then the mouth. The mouth took Tom the longest time. Just to get an idea of the shape consumed four days of thought and ponder. It paid off in the end however, for when he carved out the last bit of details on the face's lips, he knew that this was his daughter's smile.

It didn't take long after to make a suitable mould for the face, and soon he had all the parts he needed for his doll – even a few balls for the articulated joints. He felt at home as he began cleaning the parts of the doll, scraping off any unsightly seams, while fine-tuning the details. Such details were the grooves between fingers and toes, or the dips in the ears and the nose.

He made sure to keep the pieces hydrated, and kept a cup of water nearby to brush up against the surfaces. Hydration was very important in making a porcelain doll, for if it dried out even slightly, then it would crack when put in a kiln to be fired up. For this particular doll, Tom planned to have it fired five times, as he had the intention of a very long-lasting porcelain.

While the parts baked, he went on to set up his old paints and brushes. He couldn't believe they were all still usable after all this time, but perhaps it was the foresight of his younger self in putting them in cool cabinets that saved him. He laid out a pallet and dabbled the paints to get the hues he wanted, and when the baking was done, he brought the cooled down doll parts to the desk. He painted the skin tone first, which he did with surprising speed, flicking the paint here and there as easily as he had done when he was younger. The nails were painted quickly with a small brush. The brush was so small, it was hard to believe a man with hands as big as Tom's could hold it so delicately.

The only time he slowed down was when he was painting the face.

He had set aside special brushes to handle the minute parts of it he had to paint, some of which had brush tips no thicker than a needle's. He meticulously painted on the small blush on the cheeks, and the small contours around the face. The lips were painted thrice, each time to add a realistic color to them, one as vibrant as his daughter's. When he was content with his work, he placed them back in the kiln for a few minutes to bake.

He kept refining the doll parts again and again, touching up paint in areas that needed it, and later on sanding the porcelain till it was smooth. This doll would not have a glazed finish. He decided it would have a matte finish, so as to have a more skin-like texture, and be overall more realistic. It was a good thing he used Bisque porcelain for this doll. Bisque's unglazed texture worked perfectly with his vision. He fired the parts in the kiln one last time before he went to bed that night.

He went back to work at dawn the following day, the eagerness evident in the lively steps he took to his workshop.

This time he needed to put the parts together.

He started on the limbs first. Equipped with the best cord he had, he carefully strung the limbs and joints together. He repeated the process for the other limbs, and had a separate cord used to string all the limbs together to the body. Another cord string was used for the neck joint, so the doll could turn here and there. A hook and chain mechanism was installed in its face to allow blinking from it.

The eyes Tom had made for the doll, a pair of sapphire-inlays and aquamarine shards that made the irises sparkle, were gingerly set into place with a satisfying click. He quickly glued on the lashes to complete the face. The hair was next to install. That part went off without any set-back. All that was left was to tidy up any excess string and glue.

He took a step back when he finished and looked at his handicraft. "Yes. This is nice." He grinned, looking at the little doll kindly. "Now all that's left to do is to dress you up."

Tom had had the clothes and shoes for the doll made well before he started with the moulds, and they had hung patiently on a small hanger ever since. He admired the needlework done in the dress, reminding himself to thank Sabine for such a gorgeous piece. The Mary Jane shoes were equally impressive. He was glad he decided to ask a shoe maker to create it this time instead of doing it himself. Sure he was confident that he could have made good shoes for the doll, but he wanted to make absolutely certain that this doll would get the best.

The dress-up took less than five minutes to complete, though he did have a little trouble with the sleeves, and Tom stood looking at the result of five months of endless labor, a labor of love.

The little doll that sat before him smiled gently, its eyes twinkling under the lamp light, and its hair was kept neatly in two pigtails by two red ribbons.

They were the same ribbons that the real Mariet had worn before.

There was no doubt in his mind now. No matter which way he looked at the doll, he knew, he knew that this was his daughter's doll. A grin, overflowing with paternal love and mingling sadness, filled up the features in his face. "Finally," he managed to say. His voice was starting to crack from looking at such a familiar face. Tears rolled down, and he had to choke back a bittersweet sob. He felt so accomplished, so proud, and yet also sorrowful and melancholic. After all this time, he had finally made a doll, finished it all the way, and at the same time, come to peace with his daughter.

Mariet had been gone long ago, that he knew, but this was the first time he felt that he could wholly accept that fact. His daughter was longer alive; she had passed away into the after-life. But she would not be forgotten. This doll would make sure of that. Though he knew this could never replace his daughter, the doll would remind him of his love for her, and that in itself was a great gift. Gently he picked it up, like a father would when he held his baby. It was time to show Sabine and Bernard.

"Welcome to the family…my little Marinette."

~•~•~•~•~•~

Bernard Dupain was well-known in Paris, affectionately called "Mr. Bakerman" by all who knew him. Why he was called as such was due to his line of work; Bernard was a pastry chef. He owned a lovely shop on the corner street right in front of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Because of its location, there was never a day that went by without at least a dozen people stopping by to buy his confections. Such popularity among the people required a lot of work, but thankfully he wasn't alone. He had his lovely wife and three kids to help him run the business. With all the help he had, Bernard was allowed to make lots of bread and cakes and baked sweets. What kind?

Every kind imaginable.

But his most popular one, which sold out even quicker than his croissants, was a strawberry cookie he called "Maricrumbs". Children, adults, and even the elderly enjoyed the sweet yet tangy taste of it. Most of his regulars always ordered at least a couple of them every time they bought from his store. He hoped that his aunt and uncle, two wonderful people who had passed away some years ago, could see how successful his creation was, and hoped that they were smiling down at him.

It had been difficult to cope with their loss. He had lived and worked with them for six years, and in that time, he felt they were like his second parents. It was while he worked in their bakery that he met the love of his life, and it was them who helped bake the most beautifully delicious cake for his wedding. They had gone so suddenly; both had died in their sleep, wrapped in the other's arms. It was a sad time, to be sure. But Bernard wasn't alone. He had his wife, Lucille, and his children Thomas, Sabrina, and Gordan. They all kept him company.

And of course, he had Marinette.

The little porcelain girl was the last doll his uncle had ever made, and Bernard believed that it was Tom's masterpiece. The old doll-maker had taught him how to care for Marinette, how to restring her and clean her properly, telling him that he would take care of her when he passed on. Marinette now had a permanent place in the parlor room, posed sitting down on a picnic blanket with several small pillows around her, and kept within the safety of her glass case. The girl was always the start of many conversations with the guests and relatives who came by.

All agreed that there was no doll in the world like Marinette.

Many of the children that visited would go over to him, and having him bend down they would whisper how the doll seemed like it was alive.

"That's because she is!" Bernard would say with a grin. "She's just a little fragile though, so she usually stays in her case. But when the weather's good, we take her out for a picnic in the park." And how the children would giggle at him and his stories. It was silly to think that a doll could be alive.

Ah, but Marinette was alive truly, at least to Bernard.

He always felt a certain air about the porcelain doll, felt her eyes looking at him whenever he was in the room, and when he'd look back at her, the doll would smile at him. Of course Marinette was always smiling, but when he "felt" her smile at him, he knew there was something really special about her. Due to this, he made it a habit to pass by her case every morning, when he'd begin making the first batch of bread, and greet her. He did the same thing just before he retired to bed, bidding her a good night's sleep.

And every time he did it, he was most certain she was greeting him back, her eyes almost alit with intelligence. This morning was no different. He came downstairs just before dawn with his wife, ready to start the day's first batch of bread, and paused when he reached her case. "Good morning, Marinette. It's a cool morning today," he smiled at her and went to catch up with his wife. Oh, if only Bernard had stayed a bit longer in his greetings. If only he had listened just a bit harder. If he had done this, perhaps he might have heard her. It was small and soft, barely above a whisper, but when he had greeted her, the porcelain girl replied to him,

'I hope you have a good day, Bernard.'

A/N: In case any of you are wondering, Sabine and Tom married when they were 23 and 25 respectively. They ran their own shops for 7 years before Mariet was born and lived with them for the next 9. 10 years went by after Mariet's passing, followed by two more decades until Bernard came to live with them for 6 years.

After Bernard moved with his wife to their new home (which is coincidentally in the same location as ML's Marinette's home is situated), Tom and Sabine lived on for two more years before passing away. If you weren't keeping count, that means the both of them lived to be 77 and 79. They sure lived up to a pretty ripe old age. And I honestly thought they deserved a peaceful passing, after all they've been through.