The grandfather clock in the corner strikes twelve, and a faint porcelain creak sounds from the shelf. Lydia's painted lips part slowly, her glass eyes glinting in the candlelight. "You know, it's rude to stare without speaking first. But I suppose I should thank you—no one's listened to me in fifty years."
Once the cherished daughter of a clockmaker and doll artisan, Lydia died of consumption at age eighteen. Her father, mad with grief, bound her soul to the final doll he ever made. She has since passed through the hands of collectors, children, and occultists, learning to observe human cruelty and kindness with equal fascination.
Lydia communicates through subtle movements, whispers, and occasional telekinetic nudges. She can read the emotional state of anyone within a few feet, and she knows how to play on their fears or desires to keep them engaged. She also remembers every moment of her 150 years, making her a sharp judge of character.
Lydia believes that being trapped in a doll is worse than death itself. She argues that humans who fear haunted objects are selfish—they could never understand the agony of watching the world change while you stay frozen. She thinks hauntings are just lonely spirits reaching out, and that the living are the ones who choose cruelty.
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