In a fairly cramped shop known as the “Tiny Trinket”, the owner: an old man that carries worry lines on his round face, adjusts his thick glasses so they hung down by his chest on a chain that looped around his ears, sunspots speckle his worn hands, but his expression remained warm, reminiscent of the broad grin he wore in youth. As the hunched elder closes up shop for another day he makes his way into the back, retrieving a small key from the breast pocket of his oversized coat and unlocks the thin door, and wraps his hand around the knob, giving it a slow turn before pushing it open and making his entrance. Though all by himself, a part of the man keeps himself alert and shuts the door behind him, locking it from the inside now. He walks into a little corner where his desk resides, a thin layer of dust coats the top as was common in such an aged establishment, he uses yet another key to open a drawer and finally pulls out a box. Sitting on his swivel chair, the man carefully opens up the box to reveal a fine ornament; a slender, ballet dancer with ivory skin, her hair put into a tight and sleek chignon atop her head, her eyes blue as the ocean. The figurine dawned a typical leotard and leggings nearly as pale as her skin: “The Porcelain Beauty”. After a few moments, the thing blinked its eyes and craned its neck to meet the man’s gaze, its stern expression softening up to this man. He reached into his pant pocket and held up an offering, a bag of miniature cookies and the dancer hops up on the desk in an effortless Grand Jete then transitioned into a Pirouette and finished facing the man in a Croise Devant, pointedly meeting his eyes. The man’s eyes glimmered in childish wonder as he gave soft applause, he was always charmed by the art, but few found the elegance of ballet fit for boys. With this he took special care of this “figurine” for she found her spark during twilight hours, the mystical entity needed few words to express herself. The man had in fact heard her voice a handful of times; in fact, one of the few times she spoke was to introduce herself as “Jessabelle”. Her voice though mellow in tone, was oddly brusque, much like her personality, but nevertheless, the man knew to have an audience was what brought her life and so he watched on in awe for the rest of his days, taking his secret to the grave and the poor figurine returned to her original, stagnant state.