a doll loves to read. when its witch doesn't need it, it hops up onto her desk chair and goes online and reads every story about dolls it can find. it reads about dolls, witches, angels, mech pilots, and robots. it reads late into the night.
it thinks about a story it loves, but the story is so short. what happened to that doll after, it wonders. it goes back to the writer's page, but the writer is posting about an angeldoll mech pilot now. it is a very involved story and there is no sign they will ever continue that other story that this doll loves so much.
well what happened next? what if..., the doll thinks, and, hardly knowing what it is doing, it opens up a notepad file. the white window beckons, the cursor blinking invitingly. but how could it defile this pristine white square with its crude, valueless ideas? it's not a writer. how could it presume to add to the beautiful story of someone else, someone it admired? but nobody needs to read it. it doesn't hurt to imagine something. it writes:
"the doll woke up. it saw its witch's beautiful face peering down at it with love and concern. after everything, when it thought it would surely be thrown away, and replaced with a new better doll, it could see that its witch had done everything she could to bring it back to life. its witch actually cared. it wasn't that she didn't love it, she was just not very good at showing it. the doll would never question this love again."
it reads it over once, sighs with satisfaction, and taps the x on the window.
"sure you don't want to save it?" the computer asks. it pauses. it wonders. witches, even other dolls post their stories online, for others to read. should it post this? then other dolls can read and enjoy imagining a happy ending to this story, even if it's not real, or not very good. but it is so difficult. it would have to register for an account, and it would have to choose a name, and it would have to explain to its witch...it is too much. maybe it will decide later. it doesn't have to delete it, at least. instead it sets up a series of nested folders on the hard drive named "unimportant computer files," "boring technical stuff," "spare backup fonts," "apps in case of emergency," "for robots only," and saved the file there.
months later, when its witch is trying to clear some hard drive space, she encounters this bread crumb trail. inside the seventh folder, she finds dozens of strange little stories. she peeks at a few. goodness, they are precious. she'll have to ask Motet about them. maybe help it post them somewhere. other dolls would love these, probably.
"Damn," she utters.
"Mm?" says Motet, looking up from its embroidery. "Does Miss need..." it trails off, seeing all of the open folders.
"It's fine," her witch says, quickly closing out of them. "we'll uninstall The Sims."