He wrote of her incessantly. Somehow, she had stolen into his stories. Sometimes she was a village maiden, singing to the birds, sometimes a stealthy ninja who led a troupe of like-minded warriors…or a princess bride, kidnapped before her wedding, or perhaps a beautiful actress who dazzled all who saw her.

Oddly enough, none of these stories seemed to fit her character. He struggled to find the perfect story to suit her, but could find none. And so each little story was his tribute to some aspect of her personality, shining just like each of the gems she was so fond of selling.

She never tired of peddling each of her gems. She had names for each of them: courage, hope, and gratitude were some of them. Despair, regret, and envy were others. He had no idea why anyone would name a gem something like 'despair', but he supposed that its dark, rich, peacock-like depths were reminiscent of that feeling.

He had actually spoken to her just once. It had been raining then, a light drizzle that bordered on the line between 'enjoyable' and 'let's get the umbrella out'. He didn't mind the rain one bit.

And, it seemed, neither did she. Almost like a doll, she stood there, fine droplets dusting her porcelain-like features and gathering on her thick eyelashes.

"Which is your favorite?" He asked.

Her gaze swept past surprise, grief, and generosity. Finally, she picked up a cloudy purple-mauve gem. As he looked more closely, he could have sworn that there were swirls of black within it.

"Love." She said. "It does not need acknowledging. It simply is."

He looked at it, somewhat disbelieving. "But there's black swirls in it."

"I didn't say it was a specific type of love." Her voice tinkled lightly. "It is love, yes, but there are many kinds."

"Which kind is it, then?" He queried, curiosity getting the better of him.

"It depends on the eye of the beholder."

That was kind of odd. He shrugged, but he had to admit that the gem was fascinating.

"Would you like it?" She asked, her dark, peacock-blue eyes glimmering. He tried to find hidden meaning in her words, but they were as smooth and light as usual.

"Don't you sell these gems?"

"I am paid back eventually." She returned. "Please take the gem." She had placed the gem in his hand now, and was waiting expectantly. "What is your name, I wonder?"

"Call me Tom." He told her, still wondering what to do with the color-shifting stone in his hand. That was when the writing muse whacked him over the head. The gem hardly mattered anymore.

"Excuse me, I've got to go." He ran, footsteps against the wet pavement. The rain pattered over his head as she watched impassively.

The gem was clutched tightly in his fist.

Later, sitting before his writing desk, he twirled the pen in his hands and thought.

Reality…what an interesting thing…perceived differently from different perspectives. I've been wanting to write this story for a while, but here's my chance to make it into something greater.

Within five minutes, he had drawn out a rough plot of what he wanted to happen. He knew that writing could never impact the real world, but he found a joy in it regardless. Yet, he also knew that he had to thank her for the insight she had given him about the changing nature of love. She would be in this story as well.

And so he came to her little jewel-shop again. The rain was lighter this time, almost a fine mist.

"For you. To thank you for the inspiration." He dropped the gem back next to the rest.

She regarded him, unblinking, without a word.

"I just thought I should come by to say…" His breath caught in his throat as words he'd never anticipated saying manifested on the tip of his tongue. That I'd always sit on the bench, over there, and write about you. That you're in every story I've ever written since I saw you. That I've been...he swallowed. Was he?

I've been in love with you for all these years.

Wasn't that what the gem was for, to express love?

Feeling light-headed, he forged ahead. "I should tell you a little bit about myself first. I'm a writer, and I especially love good characters. I've always thought you were just like a story character."

Her silence unnerved him slightly. "Don't worry, the very best kind of character. The kind that you can empathize with, who brings the story to life. So I put you in almost all of my stories. Perhaps even all of them. But I've never gotten to know you, really, so I had to be creative with who you truly were."

The expression in her eyes remained the same as ever as she waited for him to finish. "That was why…when you gave me the gem of love yesterday, I thought of an idea for another story. It'll be a beautiful one. Sure, there will be hard times, but everything will be happy in the end. That's how I like my stories."

"Anyway…so I wanted to say…well, I'm giving the stone back to you. It's gorgeous, and along with it…" Here, he hesitated. How would she react? A random stranger who she had only met yesterday, pouring out his feelings in front of her?

"And so are you. I just wanted to say…well, it's a little sudden…that I love you."

She looked back at him, that same knowing smile on her lips. He waited, but no words came.

"What?" He asked. "Do you want me to take the gem?"

Still, that smile.

"I'll take it, but I'd rather leave it here with you. I wanted to give you the gem of love back as a gift."

Silence.

"I'll understand if you don't love me. It is all a little abrupt. But aren't all the best stories? Things have to start somewhere." He said, becoming desperate. "Just say something, anything. Then I'll leave. I won't come back. I won't bother you again. I promise."

No words came from her mouth. Her eyes were as empty as ever.

"Please! Say something!"

Nothing.

That was when he understood what he had failed to understand for so long. The opposite of love wasn't hate.

The opposite of love was indifference.

The rain poured harder, and she made no move to wipe off the droplets gathering on her hair. His face had creased in heartfelt pain.

"I see." He said quietly, his voice hardly audible. He could have turned away and walked back across the streets. His life would have been undeniably different if he had done so. He would have suffered a rejection, but pure heartbreak was yet to come.

Struck by a sudden, terrible realization, he took her hand in his. It was cold and unfeeling, with only a semblance of the warmth of a human hand. Doubts almost confirmed, he moved to place his ear at her breast.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick….

His eyes closed in horror. He wished he could unhear that dreadful sound. Almost like a clock. In the place of a human heart, a small network of mechanisms ticked away inside her breast.

However, something had gone wrong. She wasn't working anymore. Whoever's creation she was, she had broken down since yesterday. For some reason, the ticking continued. He waved his hand in front of her face.

She stared straight ahead, unblinking.

Tears started to sting his eyes. A doll. That's all she is. A doll.

He picked up the gem of love, fastened it on one of the necklace chains spread out before her, and ruefully hung it around her neck. It swayed there for a moment, glimmering purple and pink with traces of black spreading through the jewel.

He allowed himself to stay there for one more moment before he gave her a final glance and walked away.

This was the turning point. He couldn't rid himself of the image of all those gears working inside her to give the impression of a beautiful yet false woman. Life was like this. Although she hadn't tricked him, he felt betrayed by himself in that he hadn't realized the truth soon enough to prevent his heart from breaking.

And that was when he decided that this was the worst kind of tragedy: self-betrayal. To be misled by one person and then discover that he or she had been lying all along was nothing short of agonizing. To discover that you have betrayed yourself is much, much worse. For then, nothing can be trusted anymore.

He wrote pages on end about her still. Her eyes would blink, her hands come back to life, and she would smile again. She would become entirely human, and appear at his doorstep to thank him.

Yet, he knew that he shouldn't write about something so pointless. She was a doll, after all. She could never love him back. Nor would any of these things actually happen.

And yet he was sick of writing about her, even though he couldn't stop. On impulse, he decided to mark the end of this futile journey. He would write about her, but it wouldn't be the usual story.

He had to stop himself. These stories had to end so he could move on. This would be her last story.

She stood at her shop, day after day, never dreaming, eating, sleeping, or blinking. For the first few weeks, this was hardly noticed to be out of the ordinary. And yet, one day, a little beggar boy ran up to her and tugged on her hand.

"Miss! We're very hungry! Please give us some money for food!"

She didn't move.

He insisted. "Please! We're starving!"

She remained impassive.

That night, he told his father of the eccentric doll-lady who sold gems and yet refused to move. Indeed, she seemed almost inhuman.

His father was intrigued, and, following his son to the doll-lady, saw that she was merely a doll.

"She cannot move, for she is a doll made of wood!" He said, utterly surprised.

Neither of them had ever seen anything so peculiar. And he kept her in the back of his mind.

Many weeks passed, and the dreary rain became falling snow and freezing sleet. The little boy and his father barely made do, but many nights they spent shivering in the icy torrents of wind.

One night, the storm howled in unbearable cold. Snow fell thick on the ground, and hardly anything was to be seen that night save for endless gusts of white snowflakes. The little boy's fingers and lips had turned blue, and his father watched helplessly.

"We'll both die if we do not warm ourselves beside a fire!" He cried in desperation. And the curious doll made of wood rose to his mind. There was nothing else left to do. With the little boy beside him, he left for the jewel-shop, carrying his only hatchet with him.

He struggled through the blizzard as the snow tore at him like a thousand beasts clawing at his face. Finally, he arrived at the shop. She was still standing there, smiling back at him, unmoving. He raised his hatchet, and it fell down upon her. Within seconds, she became shreds of firewood.

And in another minute, he had struck up a fire near the jewel store, and gathered the firewood. Expertly, he struck up a fire. It was small at first, but the little boy's hands slowly grew warm. And—

He stopped writing. Tears were falling thick and fast on the page. With dawning horror of what he had done, he looked outside.

Snow was falling in white flurries against the dark sky outside. The clouds looked like a dark, menacing wall against the whiteness of the howling winds and swirling snow.

This was no story. This was real.

Without bothering to put on his coat, he ran out the door and for the little jewel-shop.

The frigid snow and wind stung against his skin, and yet he could hardly feel it. He ran, almost as if for his life. Although he could not see much, he knew exactly where the shop was.

The bright yellow-red glow and roar of flames came from where the little boy and his father sat. Shuddering half-sobs escaped him. He hadn't known what he was doing. He had never thought that it would come to this. He staggered to the fire and collapsed to his knees before it.

"I'm sorry." He whispered to the surging flames. "I'm sorry."

The little boy looked at him questioningly, but for some unspoken reason neither boy nor father made a single move towards the strange, haggard man who stared into their fire.

But he could see her smile hovering amidst the tendrils of red, and there were those long, thick eyelashes framing her knowing eyes.

"I'm sorry." He murmured again, and tears froze on his cheeks as he wept. "I never found out your name."

He never truly healed, but his words became sharper than ever. However, he discovered that he could write tragedies with a heartwrenching brutality. Many years later, he would also find that he had the power to manipulate stories into reality, although some part of him knew it the moment he had started writing that story.

Something about what he had experienced made his writing darker and deeper. If writing had a color, his stories could be described as the somber, rich, iridescent black of a raven's feathers. He began to shun happy endings. They could never adequately describe the tragedy that was life.

It was his mistake that he became boastful. Something in his nature pleaded for recognition for all his hard work. Reality had merely become his toy. At first no one believed him, but later it became obvious. He didn't sense the oncoming danger until later. They became afraid of his power. His control over other people's lives was unsettling to many, to say the least.

He had suspected they would try to cut his hands off. If so, it was only a matter of time until he could not avoid them anymore.

And then he took the greatest chance of all. While he could, he knew that it was vital that he write his last handwritten story.

He wrote of a man with the power to manipulate reality into stories, how he became enamored with tragedies after his only love, a doll, was lost to the flames, and how he feared for his life... in the very least, he feared for his story-writing abilities.

The fateful words were written then.

Once upon a time, a man died.

Yet, after death, his spirit found its home in a world of spinning gears, just like the gears turning to make the ticking sounds in the dolls' heart. In this way, he ensured that he would never forget her.

He managed to live on, in spite of death. Here, he planned his next masterpiece. His story, to ensure the ultimate tragedy.