Chapter 3 - The Forgotten Fortune Called Faith

I gave quite a speech today. I can't believe those words came out of my mouth.

But being noble and having noble ideals are two completely different things.

It's kind of a trap for ordinary people to have noble ideals in the country of Estrea.

As I make my way toward my counselling room, I find myself wondering—

Has empathy been replaced by sheer realism?

…No.

It can’t be that simple. I open the door.

The scent of the fish tank mixed with the purified air immediately settles my mind.

It's very difficult for my fragile lungs to process that so-called fresh air from outside.

The room is quiet. The silent clock catches my attention, while a thin layer of dust on the counselling chair irritates me.

I sigh.

In the next instant, I’m already cleaning the room. The table’s a mess too.

Someone was definitely here. And judging by the state of things, I already know who it was. Only after putting everything back in order do I finally remove my mask.

Fifteen minutes later, just as I begin drifting into a nap, a knock echoes from the door.

“The briefings are done,” Harrington says from the outside.

“May I come in?”

“Sure.”

She steps inside and hands me the file for today’s first patient.

“The appointment’s scheduled for one,” she says.

“She’s clear.”

I nod quietly.

The file tells its own story.

A sixty-eight-year-old woman, diagnosed with diabetes, chronic knee pain, and deteriorating eyesight.

I continue reading.

Currently residing in an old age home, separated from her children.

No criminal history. Reason for visit: Frequent panic attacks.

I close the file and glance at the clock again.

It’s working perfectly fine. Maybe I like dreaming about faulty clocks.

Twelve minutes left.

My mask feels comfortable now as I replace the inner face cover between it and my skin.

Then—

I simply wait.

The bell rings. A knock follows shortly after.

“Come in.”

The old woman slowly makes her way toward the chair, squinting at me as she approaches.

“Oh my… my…” the woman mutters as she slowly sits down.

“Am I getting scammed?”

“Of course not,” I reply politely.

Her eyes wander frantically around the room—the fish tank, the clock, shelves overflowing with books, the air conditioner, random posters, even the qualifications hanging on the wall.

“Just ask directly,” I say.

“What exactly are you looking for, ma’am?”

“A sweet boy like you wouldn’t understand,” she says while still looking around.

“I came here to see a psychologist… but I don’t see one.”

I quietly stand up, walk toward the door—

then step back inside again.

“Here I am,” I say, adjusting the chair.

“Of course you are. My apologies,” she says.

“Is this the kind of humour people like nowadays?”

“The mask probably threw you off,” I reply.

“I’m V. S. Roberts, clinical psychologist.”

A brief silence.

She is ill.

“I thought this whole thing worked by talking to some old buddy,” she mutters, folding her arms.

“You’re too young for that.”

“"Experience isn't measured only by age, dear,” I reply matching her tone.

“I have children older than you,” she mutters.

“But fine… I already paid for this, didn’t I?”

“How are they doing?” I ask far too quickly.

“God knows.” Her tone softens.

“Haven’t seen them in years.”

A smile forms on her face.

“Love is all about giving, not taking… no taking… not tak—”

Her voice fades before the sentence can. Even her eyes seem to lose focus.

Her tears convey years of hardships within seconds.

I don’t interrupt her.

Quietly, I offer her my handkerchief. She accepts it, dabbing the corners of her eyes before looking at me again.

“You’re really subtle,” she says softly.

“You noticed the wound before I even spoke about it.”

“Well then…”

A forced smile appears on her face.

“Let’s talk about dolls.”

“Dolls?” I repeat.

“Yeah, living dolls born in natural ways,” she continues.

“Perhaps, I should narrate a story for clarity.”

She looks at me for confirmation.

“Fine?”

“Uh… yes… please,” I reply without much thought.

“Back when people still had nuts for brains, there lived a wealthy couple in a grand mansion.”

A smile returns on her face.

“They were excited to welcome their first child. Little did they know… the young one was more like a—”

She suddenly stops herself.

“…Never mind.”

“The father waited anxiously outside the hospital room. Then the doctor finally arrived.”

‘Congratulations, sir,’ the doctor said.

‘It’s a Doll.’

“The father wasn’t very pleased. A daughter simply wasn’t the one he wanted."

"The mother never dared to oppose him and learned to wear the same disappointment.”

Her eyes slowly drift downward.

“Women were treated like property, a commodity to be kept nicely when someone comes demanding for it."

"A well-kept doll was the ultimate possession as it fetched great connections.”

A brief pause.

“That was the way of a doll.”

[Chapter 3 illustration - https://i.postimg.cc/vZvmTFSv/Chapter-3.png]

“Soon enough, the doll grew up but her inner self never did."

"Everyone was happy, though."

"The doll barely spoke and charmed everyone with her looks.”

A deep sigh escapes her.

“One day, a wealthy colleague of her father noticed her.”

Bitterness creeps into her voice.

“And that was it.”

“The doll fetched a grand price.”

“For the father, it was a once-in-a-lifetime deal.”

“A share in the oil business… along with five factories to his name.”

“All that…”

Her voice weakens slightly.

“All that for a well-kept doll.”

The words hung in the air.

“He never considered the age gap.”
“More like he never considered the generation gap.”
“To him, the doll was never alive to begin with.”

Her eyes lose focus.

“I still remember it like yesterday."

“That fat man with a grinning face staring at me while I smiled back politely.”

“My father was busy signing endless documents with excitement.”

“And my mother…”

A brief pause.

“She stood there like a doll too.”

“Little did I know.…”

Her fingers tighten slightly.

“I was not taken"

"I was sold.”

She pauses suddenly.

“May I have some water, please?” she asks, gesturing weakly with her fingers.

I hand her a glass almost immediately. She waits for a moment before taking it carefully into her hands.

Then she drinks slowly.

After a while, still holding the cup, she looks at me.

“You get it, right?”

Her voice is quieter now.

“I mean… where all of this is heading.”

I nod.

“I know.”

She clears her throat.

“Uh… ah…”

“The doll entered a new dollhouse, but her role remained the same."

"She pleased everyone and kept to herself."

"Her so-called husband was ugly, both inside and out."

"Still… she stayed with him. A daughter and a son were what she gave him.”

She suddenly stops.

Then, with a pain so heavy it almost distorts her voice—

“The doll lost its charm.”

Silence fills the room again.

“An old doll is the same as no doll at all."

“I was now just a thing that wasn't pleasant to look at.”

Her anger slowly mixes with amusement as she says,

“I turned twenty on that unpleasant day.”

She glances at the ceiling in quiet awe.

“The saddest part of being a doll is the truth must never leave your lips."

“That day, the house of the man I hated collapsed financially.”

She takes a deep breath again. Her age catches up to her often.

“I didn’t know what to say. I simply stood there smiling… because that’s what I was taught to do.”

“The great Nyrto Industries went bankrupt overnight for reasons no one understood. Our assets were seized.”

A faint bitterness flickers on her face.

“He cried on the floor.”

“Pathetic man had it coming.”

Her eyes slowly close.

“Then he suddenly got up… and broke the doll’s hand. The doll cried and cried, but it didn’t move him at all.”

Silence again lingers for a while.

“Her children stood there watching everything…”

Her voice cracks.

“And none of them could stop it.”

“Several years passed.”

“The doll no longer lived in a mansion, but in a mediocre house overflowing with guilt.”

She takes another sip of water before continuing.

“Over time, the children grew distant and violent too… much like a certain someone.”

A bitter smile reaches her face yet again.

“All because of her emotional distance.”

“Nyrto wanted the children to repay his debts. For that, he exploited them relentlessly.”

“And the doll…”

Her fingers tighten slightly around the glass.

“She never opposed it either.”

Silence fills the room again.

“One day, after years of labour…”

Her voice weakens.

“The children disappeared with the money.”

“And then the blame was conveniently shifted on to the doll.”

“The doll gave birth to goblins who looted a suffering man, a narrative set by the man she despised with all her heart.”

She suddenly yawns. Then looks at me in confusion.

“Hey… mind telling me where I was again?”

“Ah… the goblins part,” I reply gently.

“Oh, right…”

She chuckles weakly to herself.

“Old folks reset pretty quickly… ha… ha…”

“The old doll was dismantled like a machine that day, she couldn’t even cry properly… blood kept choking her.”

“Even on the brink of death, the doll smiled while he tore her apart.”

Silence hangs heavily in the room.

“Then came a loud thud.”

“People broke through the door. They rushed inside and captured her husband.”

“Everything happened too quickly.”

She coughs softly, yet continues speaking.

“A smiling doll with one eye popping out…”

A faint tremor runs through her voice.

“…was not something anyone wished to see in their lifetime.”

She was laughing but in an insincere way. Even while reliving those moments, she still tries to hold the emotions back.

“Months spent in some unknown hospital felt better than those hellish years.”

“They left the doll on the streets after recovery. Nobody even knew who she was.”

A long sigh escapes her.

“You know…”

Her tired eyes drift toward the ceiling again.

“A broken doll is the ultimate form of despair.”

“No matter how much it smiles… nobody bothers looking at it anymore.”

She pauses for a second.

“The only thing the doll learned throughout her entire life, betrayed her the moment she stepped outside that fantasy doll house.”

She clears her throat again.

“Sorry for that, boy,” she says quietly.

“The doll spent four… maybe five days wandering the streets, searching for attention it could never let go of.”

A faint bitterness lingers in her voice.

“The doll simply couldn’t accept that it had been discarded.”

“When hunger finally caught up to it, the doll collapsed on the street.”

“Nobody bothered to help.”

“People simply curved their paths around it.”

She suddenly pauses.

She stops, “Let's just get to the main part, I'm not very good at telling sad stories.”

“You don’t mind, right?”

She looks at me carefully.

“No,” I reply calmly. “Proceed however you wish.”

“One fine day, a girl suddenly grabbed the doll’s hand and quietly led her into a car.”

She pauses briefly.

“The timeline’s messy… I skipped ahead, didn’t I?”

A weak laugh escapes her.

“This probably happened three… maybe four years later. I’m not too sure anymore. The doll, dressed in torn clothes with tangled hair and the smell of garbage clinging to her body…”

Her tired eyes drift downward.

“…still felt excited.”

“It thought it was finally being taken to another mansion. Throughout the entire journey, the doll kept trying to wear its best smile. The girl never spoke a single word. After some time, they arrived at an old age home. The girl handled all the necessary procedures while the doll simply stood there smiling beside her.”

She breathes heavily before taking another sip of water.

“After that, the girl left.”

A brief pause.

“She never came back.”

“The doll was now surrounded by old people instead. They helped her a lot.”

A new smile forms on her.

“They were quite shocked to see a thirty-five-year-old there…”

“…but they still accepted the doll.”

She slowly leans back.

“The rest of the story is unnecessary, I believe.”

Another yawn escapes her.

“That’s it.”

She offers me the handkerchief back, which I accept politely.

“The doll was rescued by her own girl then,” I say while carefully folding it.

She immediately stops yawning.

“That was her… no… maybe…”

Her voice weakens.

“…No…”

“Yes,” I reply quietly.

“I believe it definitely was.”

She looks away.

“No… why would she do that?” she mutters.

“She was probably just some nice and kind girl.”

“Wasn’t she?”

“It’s possible but…” She lowers her gaze.

“Why would she?”

“I left her behind…”

Her voice trembles.

“So, it’s only natural if she left me too.”

Her eyes begin tearing up again before another cough interrupts her.

“Maybe…” I speak carefully, “that was simply her way of breaking the cycle.”

For a moment, she says nothing.

Then—

“Yes… uh… ah…”

Her coughs interrupt her words, yet excitement slowly overwhelms them.

“She’s a girl…”

Her trembling smile grows brighter.

“My girl.”

A tear rolls down her cheek.

“Not a doll.”

She cries and laughs at the same time.

“So… uh… ha… ha…”

A cough interrupts her again. “My emotions are just… gushing out.”

But this time—

her smile looks different. Not like a doll. Like a person.

“So…” she whispers while wiping her tears, “this is how a natural smile feels.”

Her eyes continue watering.

“You’re a person after all, sweetheart,” I say gently, matching her energy.

“And that’s how people smile.”

The clock rings, signalling that an hour has passed. She carefully steadies herself again before looking at me.

“I worked for nearly seven years and saved enough money just for today.”

A faint guilt lingers in her eyes.

“I wasn’t really good at anything. No knitting. No cooking. No cleaning. I never properly learned how to do anything.”

She pauses to take another sip of water.

“I feel today I have rearranged myself. It’s not that I have changed, I have begun expressing myself.”, she says as she drinks water again. A small, genuine smile appears again.

“I’d say you should take things easy.”

She quietly listens while I finish writing her evaluation.

“Do what you enjoy… or at least try finding something you can grow attached to.”

She frowns slightly.

“All that nice talk just to end it so poorly.”

“Come on, boy… ha… ha… be more of a psychotherapist.”

“You’re doing well,” I say calmly.

“It’s just the guilt that occasionally triggers your panic attacks.”

“Panic… what?” she asks in confusion.

“The chest pain. The uneasy feeling.”

“Oh…”

A small realization appears on her face.

“Yes… of course.” This time not a single cough follows.

“Also,” she adds with a small frown, “you charge way too much for just listening. Be more budget-friendly.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” I reply normally.

A brief silence passes before her eyes suddenly brighten.

“So… how many pills do I get?”

“No pills for you,” I say while putting away the evaluation. “You’re already doing well.”

Her expression drops immediately.

“Mean.”

She folds her arms slightly.

“That’s just mean, boy.”

For a brief moment, she simply stares at the paper in her hands.

“Anything else you want to say?”, I ask as I notice her body language.

“Yes… uh…it’s kind of late to say this,” she stammers.

“Feel free to say anything. You already paid for the session, right?”

“Yes, so the thing is, I was actually told this story by the old folks at the home.”

Silence.

“They said I used to repeat it every single day for the first five or six years.”

She adjusts her hair slightly.

“Then one day… I suddenly stopped.”

A pause.

“They only started telling it back to me these past few years…”

She touches her chest lightly.

“…And these painful feelings started returning.”

“So…”

Her tired eyes meet mine.

“Who is this doll?”

“Just take care of yourself,” I say while signing her evaluation.

“Maybe one day, someone will come to visit you.”

I hand her a copy.

“And when they do…”

I look at her quietly.

“Make sure they see the real you.”

“Sure.”

A small but genuine smile forms on her face.

“The woman named Nitana Rosvena still has faith.”

She continues smiling.

“The only fortune she inherited and managed to pass along.”