Jonathan grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His usual glint of mischief had dulled into something quieter, heavier. He sat cross-legged on the floor, rocking gently on his heels, fingers tapping a faint rhythm against the cold wood — tap, tap, tap.

“Well then,” he said, with forced cheer, “my turn to ruin your sleep.”

He cleared his throat, but his gaze drifted, no longer with the group. It landed somewhere in the darkened corner of the room, as if something there was listening.

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a boy who wasn’t real.”

The chatter stopped. Even the air seemed to still.

“He lived in a crooked little house at the edge of a crooked little town. The kind of place where the buildings leaned as if the wind had been pushing them for centuries, and no one had the strength to push back anymore. The boy wasn’t made of flesh and bone like the others — not really. He was carved from wood. Pine, I think. Or maybe oak. It didn’t matter. He looked human enough… unless you listened closely and heard his ribs creak when he breathed.”

Jonathan’s voice softened, the humour gone now, replaced with a kind of reverence.

“He had a father — a man who always wore gloves, even when it wasn’t cold. The boy never saw his hands, not once. The father said he’d made the boy to replace someone. A son, maybe. Or maybe himself. The boy never asked. He was too afraid of the answers.”

Beatrice shifted, arms folded tightly around herself.

“Every day,” Jonathan went on, “the boy had to perform. He had to tell stories. That was the deal. The father would say, ‘If you want to be real, you must entertain me.’ So he did. He told tale after tale — stories of bravery, of love, of stars and kings and golden cities. None of it was true. But every time he lied, the house… smiled.”

“Smiled?” Lilith repeated cautiously.

“Literally,” Jonathan said. “The walls would stretch just a little wider. The floor would curl up at the edges, like it was listening. The fire would crackle louder — like it was clapping for him. The house liked lies. It fed on them. Needed them.”

He stopped tapping his fingers.

“But the boy made a mistake, once. He tried to tell the truth.”

“What happened?” Lilith asked, almost whispering.

Jonathan’s voice dropped to a near-whisper.
“The house screamed.”

A shiver seemed to move through the group like a silent breeze.

“So,” he continued, “the boy learned. Lies made him lovable. Lies kept the fire burning and the father clapping. So he got better at it. He lied beautifully. He lied like it was breathing. Until one day, he couldn’t stop.”

He shifted slightly, his eyes still locked on that distant corner.

“But one night, he couldn’t sleep. And something… something in the house was humming. So he followed it. Down, down, down into the cellar. The place he was never allowed to go. The air was thick with wax and dust. The candles had burned down to stubs.”

He swallowed hard.

“And he found carvings.”

“Carvings?” Cedric asked, barely audible.

“Hundreds of them,” Jonathan said. “All wooden people. Little children. Some smiling, some crying. Some missing arms or legs. All carefully lined up like dolls on shelves. Each one had a name carved beneath it in neat letters.”

He paused.

“None of them were his.”

Alice’s breath caught. “So… he wasn’t the first?”

Jonathan shook his head. “No. And he wouldn’t be the last.”

Beatrice drew her knees to her chest.

“The father found him,” Jonathan continued. “Dragged him back upstairs. He didn’t shout. He just said, ‘You have one final test. From now on, you must never lie. If you do — I’ll know.’ Then he kissed the boy’s forehead. And left.”

The fire crackled in their room — but no one moved.

“The boy tried,” Jonathan whispered. “He tried to be good. He said he didn’t want to be wood anymore. He said he wanted to bleed. That he hated the house. That he hated the stories. That he didn’t want to be watched. That he missed a family he wasn’t sure ever existed.”

“And what happened?” Cedric asked, voice gentle.

Jonathan let out a breath that sounded like it hurt.
“The house smiled anyway.”

Silence. Cold and heavy.

“And that’s when he realised the worst part,” Jonathan said.

He looked down at his hands, pale against the floorboards.

“He’d lied so well for so long… that he didn’t know what the truth was anymore.”

No one spoke.

The fire didn’t crackle. The wind didn’t howl. Even the forest beyond the window seemed to hold its breath.

“So what did he do?” Beatrice asked quietly.

Jonathan’s eyes flicked up. There was something fractured in them.

“He tore himself apart. Splinter by splinter. Tried to find something real inside. Something soft. Something bleeding. Something human.”

He paused.

“But all he found… was sawdust.”

A hush fell over the room.

Then — slowly, deliberately — Lilith stretched, cracking her knuckles.

“Guess that leaves me next.”

me next.”