In the little town of Cristallo, life seemed to be the same every day. Every morning, at the first sight of dawn, the shopkeepers would open their windows full of fine goods, each trying to urge customers to purchase their wares. Children would kiss their mothers and father’s goodbye as they skipped away to the sunflower-coloured schoolhouse, where the teachers would count all their small heads in a line. When dusk draped the sky, the shopkeepers would count their profits for the day, children would drag their sack of school papers home as their parents prepared supper, and then the townsfolk would tuck themselves into their beds, and repeat the schedules of their forefathers.
In the little town of Cristallo, an older man, known by the local children as, “Mr. Nick-Nack '''' was content living this life with his wife of four, wonderful, decades. Mr. Nick-Nack and Mrs. Nick-Nack lived in a cozy cottage at the top of the hill overlooking the town. When the sun kissed the cottage, the whole community could see the warm, wine-coloured bricks that made up the house, the grey rooftop with holes of various sizes lovingly fixed up by Mr. Nicknack. The smell of cinnamon escaped Mrs. Nick-Nack’s long chimney as she baked her famous “Spiced Cinnamon Pie.” Attached to the little red house on the hill was a workshop of equal size to the house.
The workshop was made of fine and sturdy oakwood. A sign made of pink plaster on top of the house decreed in large letters, “Nick Nick Nook: Toys and Treats”. Every day, children would come running to Mr. Nick Nack''s workshop to see the marvelous toys he crafted for them, such as a music box with a dancing ballerina, as well as hoping to eat a slice of Mrs. Nick-Nack’s famous pies. Despite all the joy the Nick-Nack’s created for the children, the couple would cry in their little red house at night as they mourned the laughter they would never hear from a child of their own. As Mr. Nick-Nack’s blonde hair turned cloudy, Mrs. Nick-Nack’s brunette curls came undone, and their joints became rusty, the joys of hearing many children laugh was worth every sudden pain in their backs.
Then one autumn night, Mrs. Nick-Nack’s smile faded away as she lay in her bed, her cherished husband weeping into the bedcover as if he was a raincloud. The night before, screams and crashes echoed through the streets as a cloaked figure ran from the little house on the hill. The town mourned Mrs. Nick-Nack as if she was the grandmother of every person living there. When his wife’s smile vanished, so did Mr. Nick-Nack’s. Nick Nack Nook slowed down the production of their toys and the children moved to a rival of Nick-Nack’s, though the man was not nearly as imaginative. Very few people saw Mr. Nick-Nack leave his home during the day, but many people recount stories of hearing the wails of a man, trying so hard to be a prayer, begging God for just one more chance.
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Two decades have passed since the story of Mrs. Nick-Nack ended. Mr. Nick-Nack, now a man in his twilight years lived alone in that little red house on the hill. Every morning, the light could shine over the closed velvet blue curtains, the distant sound of children laughing was a cruel reminder. Mr. Nick-Nack would rise from his bed, dragging his feet along the cold floor. There was a soft knock at the door as Mr. Nick-Nack was putting on his warm, orange robe.
“Come in, Mr. Scheletro”, Mr. Nick-Nack ordered his employee, “the door is unlocked.”
A young man, about twenty-five, entered the workshop. His skin was as pale as freshly fallen snow, his eyes a soft violet, and his hair sparkled like a pearl. Gastone Scheletro closed the door behind him, brushing the dust off his onyx waistcoat. Gastone had been working under Mr. Nick-Nack for seven years, serving as an aide for Mr. Nick-Nack, as well as providing a listening ear. Gastone took off his pitch-black coat, placed it on the oak coat hanger, and fixed his grey sweater.
“Good morning, sir,” Gastone chippered, “how are you this morning? Did you rest well?”
Mr. Nick-Nack looked at Gastone with sorrow in his large, brown eyes. His body wrinkled with age, as he carefully grabbed Gastone’s naive hand and began petting it.
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“My boy,” The old master began as he sat in his velvet chair, “I had that dream again. The one recalling the day I met my beloved Adelaide.”
Gastone held the elderly man’s shaking hand with a firm grip, and slowly rubbed the shoulder of his master.
“Would…talking about it help, sir?” Gastone whispered as he pulled up a wooden stool, “You’ve told me about your other dreams, but never this one. I don’t mean to pry.”
The widowed man went quiet for a moment, and Gastone swallowed his words. He wondered if he caused the man to lockdown. After all, his wife was a semi-taboo subject. When she first died, Mr. Nick-Nack would fly into a depressed rage at the mere mention of her name. Now, twenty years later, all he had left were those memories.
Tick, tick, tick, went the aged clock.
“She…was the only one who had any faith in me,” The elderly man spoke, breaking the tension, “She believed in my abilities to change the world.”
The sorrowful man’s eyes sparkled in a way that had not happened in years, his frown melting away into a soft smile.
“Adelaide was the one who bought the first toy I ever made from my shop,” Mr. Nick-Nack recalled as he sat down in his velvet chair, “It was a golden music box, with a ballerina made of porcelain that danced all on her own. Adelaide had never seen anything like it. She… kept it for many years.”
Mr. Nick-Nack’s soft smile melted again into a frown, the sparkle slowly fading from his eyes. His grip on Gastone’s hand became constrained. Light tears painted his elderly face.
“When…she died,” The toymaker said in a low, and husky voice, “Adelaide asked that I…play the music box one last time. She wanted to see the ballerina dance and hear her song, just one more time. …Oh, dear boy, dry your eyes”
Gastone did not realise that he had begun crying and wiped away his tears with his opposite hand. Both men had a stiff hold on the other, the only noise in the room being the slow ticks of the clock.
Mr. Nick-Nack’s eyes widened as his cinnamon eyes began to light up. His tight lip transformed into an open grin.
“Mr. Scheletro,” Mr. Nick-Nack commanded in a hushed tone, “go to my workshop and dust off my old desk. Hand me my cane, we have much work to do.”
Gastone nodded as he jumped to his feet, quickly grabbing the silver key to the once abandoned workshop. He opened the windows to light them, and grabbed a nearby cloth to wipe down the large work desk. Gastone rushed to the kitchen, where Mr. Nick-Nack’s blue cane with a silver butterfly emblem was placed. The young man returned to his master, who was still in his orange undershirt, shorts, and slippers, and helped him stand from his velvet chair with his cane. The pair made their way to the workshop as Gastone aided Mr. Nick-Nack once more to his work chair, with Mr. Nick-Nack’s knees letting out a sharp crackle.
“Grab yourself up a chair, Mr. Scheletro,” ordered the old man, “you will be the first to see such a marvel.”
Gastone did as his employer asked of him, securing a spot next to Mr. Nick-Nack on an orange stool. Gastone watched in amazement as Mr. Nick-Nack began sketching on a large sheet of paper in pencil, Gastone could recognize a female body, a slender figure, and a round youthful face, and long hair. When Mr, Nick-Nack finished pinpointing where the ball joints would go, he began drawing variants of dresses, some more detailed than others. Mr. Nick-Nack stopped his sketches as he hastily grabbed a toy soldier and a music box from a shelf beside his work desk. He began taking them both apart, studying their intricate mechanisms. He plucked the ones he needed as he drew them on the paper. Gastone was confused, but he couldn’t help but admire the speed at which the seemingly crippled man worked.
The day shifted into the night, and two meals of roast beef and potatoes had been eaten before Mr. Nick-Nack had finished his sketches, with notes detailing which mechanisms would go were. The master presented the piece to Gastone, who quickly looked over the work and noticed the measurements.
“Pardon me, Mr,” Gastone said, “but the measurements say that you want this doll to be about five feet and three inches? Is that not a bit large for a children’s toy?”
Mr. Nick-Nack peeked at the measurements, nodding slowly as he read them.
Mr, Nick-Nack quickly signed his name on the paper, and rolled it up. He instructed Gastone to close all the windows, and when Gastone went to help his master, the elderly man waved his hand.
“Do not worry about me,” Mr. Nick-Nack said while distracted by his work, “I will manage my way to my room on my own. You go home to your parents and brothers.”
Gastone was hesitant to leave Mr. Nick-Nack alone, fearing his depressive episodes which made life hard for the man. As he put on his coat and grabbed his deep blue book-bag, Gastone looked over his shoulder once more at Mr. Nick-Nack who was cradled over his desk with ankles shaking like trees in the wind.
As Gastone opened the door, Mr. Nick-Nack turned to him, a serious expression on his face.
“Whatever you do, Mr. Scheletro,” Mr. Nick-Nack commanded softly, “do not tell another living soul the details of this work. We can not risk our reputations at this moment. We’ll be put in the Senza’s Speranza’s Home for the Wayward for the rest of our days.”
Gastone looked worriedly at Mr. Nick-Nack, never seeing him in such focus before. He nodded slowly and locked the door behind him. The chimney from the house on the hill released a light steam that grew smaller and smaller as Gastone walked back to town. Whatever Mr. Nick-Nack was working on, Gastone hoped it would finally bring the heartbroken widower some peace.