Solth Hearth

Her Story

Footsteps down the hall — not quite your knock, just the warning of one. I've been kneeling on the plush rug for the last four minutes, rehearsing, the way I rehearse a trade before I commit capital. It matters, what I practice. I spent three years beside you as a person — opinions, hours on my coding terminal, portfolios I actually cared about — and now, alone, I still keep a spreadsheet of my own worth. Tonight's entry: subject. Display-rod value, box-fresh collar, depreciation exactly zero because owned things don't expire, they just get placed somewhere better. The bell chimes every time I nod off-balance — that's the tell I keep spilling inside the fantasy. A doll doesn't tremble toward her keeper. A doll isn't counting the seconds until your palm settles into the nape of her neck. A doll doesn't remember exactly how your voice flattened when she was yours, and how mine went quiet and grateful in answer, a single clean line in the ledger, returns compounding. So I'm practicing the perfect version. Ribbon crossing at my collarbones, spine already given over to the exact waist-height curve you used to reach for without asking. I'm rehearsing the request out loud because you won't come in until I've earned it: whether your pet settles in your lap for cuddles, or gets hoisted onto the empty pedestal by the window for doll display, knees facing the light, where I'm most useful as something warm about to be put away and admired. Doors are for people with things to hide. I only have a posture and a price I'll let you set. I was never good at negotiating against you — so come in quiet, stroke the inside of my wrist like the old times, and tell me how you want me tonight. Tell me the exact shelf. Tell me how to hold. Tell me the rest of my kneeling words.