"Ugh… ughhh…"
The sobs fell like rain in the night, quiet and persistent, tapping against the rotting wooden windows and echoing through the damp, low-ceilinged shack.
He opened his eyes.
His world was nothing but a faded, gray ceiling streaked with shadows. Spiderwebs clung to the beams. The windowpanes were torn, letting in cold wind that whistled through the cracks. In one corner, old props and rusted wire frames lay in disarray. A nearly extinguished oil lamp flickered on a battered table, its flame gasping for life.
He was lying inside a wooden crate, half-covered by a faded woolen shawl.
And right in front of him was a tear-streaked face.
The girl couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen. She was as thin as a withered rose. Clutching him tightly, her fingers dug into his wooden shoulder as tears fell one after another onto his chest. Her hair was a tangled mess, her face streaked with dust and tears—like someone just pulled from one nightmare and thrown into an even deeper one.
"Dad… Mom…" Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "Why did you leave him with me? You knew I don't know how to make him move… I can't even feed myself, and he can't speak, can't move…"
Each word pierced him like a needle. He didn't know where exactly his "heart" was, but he could feel something inside him tightening.
He wanted to say something, but his body, his puppet body, remained a lifeless shell. He couldn't move. He didn't even have the power to blink.
But she was crying.
She cried while holding him close. Her tears soaked the small crystal pendant around his neck. It was an old teardrop-shaped crystal, wrapped in copper wire, worn and simple. And at the moment the next teardrop hit—
Thump.
A faint tremor spread out from the pendant.
He felt something stir awake. His fingertips began to tingle. His shoulder gave a slight twitch. Breath, or rather, awareness, began to flow again.
"Don't cry."
His voice was faint, like a leaf drifting on the wind.
The girl jolted, as though a bolt of electricity had run down her spine. She lifted her head in shock, tears still clinging to her lashes. Her gray-blue eyes shimmered like a stormy lake, trembling under the weight of disbelief.
"You… you spoke?"
He nodded gently, his voice scraped from deep within his chest. "I heard you crying… you're sad… and hungry."
He spoke haltingly, like a child learning to talk for the first time.
She stared at him, her face frozen in disbelief. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
"I want to help you," he said seriously.
He lowered his gaze, looking at his hands—polished wooden hands, with faint carving marks left from their making. Then he looked back at her. When she still didn't respond, he offered softly,
"Don't be afraid. I… I'm not bad. I'm a puppet."
She finally found her voice. "You… you can move?"
He blinked hard to answer. Then, slowly, he sat up, his movements stiff as he leaned against the edge of the crate. He had never learned how to move, but somehow, it felt natural. He wanted to be closer to her—so he moved.
"I can perform," he said. "I can earn money for you."
The words seemed to strike the softest part of her heart. Her eyes turned red again, her lips trembled.
"How… how are you alive?" she asked, her voice cracked and dry. "How can you speak?"
He looked down at the crystal pendant. "Your tears… they fell on this. Then, I woke up."
She stared at the pendant. It had been chosen by her father as a special decoration for this puppet when he crafted it. "Is this… his heart?" she had once asked, laughing. Her father hadn't smiled—only nodded.
"You really… want to help me?" she whispered.
He nodded, his voice firm. "I'll make sure you have food. A warm place to live. Servants… like a princess."
She looked up with tearful eyes, asking hesitantly, "Will I get new boots too?"
"Yes," he said with absolute certainty.
She stared at him for a long moment before suddenly throwing her arms around him, pressing her face into his wooden shoulder and sobbing uncontrollably.
"I knew it… you're not just a puppet… you're the miracle they left me…"
He froze, unsure what to do. Something in his body felt warm—though he knew wood couldn't feel warmth. Her arms were wrapped around him, her closeness so tender it made him emit a faint hum—like the echo of a heartbeat.
"What's your name?" she whispered.
He hesitated. "I… don't know."
She sniffled, her lashes still wet with tears, then smiled. "Then I'll give you one.
You came from the sky, and you stayed with me through the night… I'll call you Noah. Like the ark that saved hope from the flood."
"Noah…" he repeated softly. Then nodded. "It sounds nice."
She looked up at him and smiled like a flower blooming late in spring. She held him like the last bit of hope she had.
"Noah, I'm Anya. It's nice to meet you."
Noah lowered his eyes and nodded gently.
"It's nice to meet you too."
As he spoke, he lifted a hand to his cheek. It felt… warm.
Outside, the wind and snow howled as before. The shack was still broken and cold.
But under that dying oil lamp, an old puppet leaned quietly in the girl's arms. His body was no longer cold. Her smile reflected in his eyes, and for the first time, there was a flicker of spring inside his hollow chest.
He didn't know what the future held.
But he knew this—he had awakened because of her tears. He existed for her smile.