Chapter Text
Puppetry, as a form of entertainment and storytelling, has existed for at least 3,000 years. It is believed that our cave-dwelling ancestors created shadow puppets around evening fires to bring their stories of the day to life. Those dancing silhouettes on cave walls, mingling with smoke and flame, breathed soul into humanity's earliest legends. There is something primal in the connection between humans and those figures woven from light and shadow—a bond both familiar and mysterious, winding its way through millennia of civilization.
String puppets—those exquisite works of art controlled by threads—have captivated audiences for centuries. Their ability to breathe life into stories through subtle, lifelike movements makes them a wonder to behold. From humble beginnings to sophisticated theatrical productions, marionettes have evolved significantly over time, reflecting cultural nuances and artistic advancements. They were never mere entertainment; each puppet was a soul carved from wood, every line a silent story entrusted by the artisan. When the invisible threads pulled taut, they did not merely move—they *lived*, and in those moments of animation, the boundary between puppeteer and puppet became impossibly fragile.
The Renaissance marked a significant turning point for puppetry, elevating the art form to new heights. During this period, puppeteers began incorporating more complex storylines, lavish costumes, and elaborate stage designs. The influence of Renaissance art and humanism was evident in the meticulous craftsmanship of the puppets, which often depicted historical and mythological figures. Many European cities witnessed the flourishing of puppet theaters, where these miniature actors performed plays that mirrored those of their human counterparts. It was said that on full moon nights, after the theaters had closed, echoes of applause still lingered—as if the puppets continued performing for themselves, for the lonely souls still lingering around the stage.
The golden age of puppetry, following the Renaissance, brought remarkable advancements. Technological progress allowed for more intricate control mechanisms, enabling puppets to move with even greater lifelikeness. This period also saw puppetry performances expand beyond traditional stages into public squares and royal palaces, reaching wider audiences. The drama and emotional depth that puppetry could convey solidified its place in European culture. There were artisans who devoted entire lifetimes to perfecting a single gesture of their puppet, so that when their fingers trembled, the entire hall would tremble in response. Puppetry then was not merely a craft—it was a calling, a way for humans to converse with things beyond words.
In 1936, Lanchester and his wife Muriel opened the Lanchester Marionette Theatre in Malvern, Worcestershire, "the only theatre in the country used solely for puppetry" at that time. The only purpose-built puppet theater in the United Kingdom is the Harlequin Puppet Theatre (built in 1958) in Rhos on Sea, North Wales, founded by Eric Bramall FRSA. Those spaces—with their oil lamps and red velvet curtains—nurtured generations of artists, where fairy tales were reborn through the graceful movements of wooden figures. Though time passed, those theaters retained a soul of their own, silent witnesses to an era when art flourished.
When the golden age returned once more, it heralded the birth of the amusement park—with audiences spanning a richer range of ages, granting greater access and broader possibilities in themes and puppet designs. That was when the Kingdom Of Marionettes amusement park came into being. It was not merely a performance venue; it was an artistic statement, a convergence of tradition and modernity, of fairy tales and haunting obsession. People said that when you stepped through the gates of Kingdom Of Marionettes, you did not simply enter an amusement park—you entered another world, where the puppets did not merely perform, but *observed* you.
Once occupying a prime location within the city, easily accessible to residents and visible from afar, this amusement park was surrounded by a park with emerald green lawns in summer, rows of trees draped in golden leaves in autumn, and a vast field of snow in winter. With its striking, haunting, captivating colors, the amusement park in its glorious days captured countless human hearts. I imagined summer afternoons, golden sunlight stretching across the crimson domes, laughter mingling with the melodious tunes of antique organs. Children watched with wide eyes, spellbound by the dancing puppets, their hearts brimming with stories of princes, princesses, and magic. And in that moment, perhaps the boundary between reality and illusion grew impossibly thin.
Thousands of people, from within and outside the city, formed long lines of vehicles, snaking queues of eager visitors waiting to buy tickets for the performances. The weekend was the only time they could witness these puppets—unique in all the world—for these were the final creations of the master craftsman before his death, carrying with them a peculiar curse: their names must never be changed—Jester, Knight, Butler, Chef, Maid, Wizard, King. Each puppet possessed joints so perfectly crafted that when they moved, the controlling threads seemed to vanish entirely. They appeared to breathe, to observe all who came to watch their performance, mesmerizing them with their haunting, enchanting movements. Every glance, every gaze drew the audience in completely, as if their very souls were being absorbed. People whispered among themselves that sometimes, even after the show had ended, they could still feel the puppets watching them as they left.
It was said that once, the city's most formidable art critic came to watch. He sat in the front row, pen and notebook ready to deliver his criticisms. But when the Jester puppet began to dance—with staggering, seemingly drunken yet exquisitely graceful steps—the pen slipped from his fingers. When the performance ended, he sat motionless for a long while, then whispered to the person beside him: "It's laughing at me. Not the puppet—the spirit within it." From that day on, he never wrote a single review of Kingdom Of Marionettes, and every weekend thereafter, he quietly queued for tickets like everyone else.
The age of television and other forms of entertainment arrived, offering people too many experiences, dispersing and diluting their initial curiosity. Performances grew sparse; the weekend queues vanished. Yet there was something peculiar: while they could increase the performance frequency of other puppets, those seven string puppets—the ones whose names must never be altered—performed only once a week. No one knew the reason behind this. Some said it was the final wish of the master craftsman; others whispered of a secret pact no one dared to break. But there was another notion, murmured in corner cafes, that the puppets themselves refused to perform more often. Once a week, like a ritual, like a reminder of their existence.
The city developed in other directions, focusing on modern skyscrapers, shopping centers with dazzling, state-of-the-art special effects. The residents around the park grew fewer, and fewer still. As seasons passed, the greenery withered, the lawns lost their vitality, the trees grew barren, and winter submerged everything in an endless white shroud. The once-majestic castle stood alone, desolate in a snowfield that seemed to stretch into infinity. Perhaps beauty, when forgotten, becomes more haunting than ever. The peeling walls, the shattered windows, the bare branches—all formed a still life of melancholy, yet one that drew the eye irresistibly. Not because of nostalgia, but because that place seemed to still hold a pulse—quiet, restless, waiting.
No one spoke of that place anymore. It became wasteland, a barren soul abandoned.
But later, when I stood before it, I thought otherwise. Some things are not truly abandoned—they are merely waiting for someone who understands their language. Like the oldest stories, they are not always told in words, but in silence and in the scars time carves into every grain of wood, every stone.
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Years later, when I came to this city to study, I was drawn to its beauty—both modern and ancient. I could spend hours walking through its streets, discovering old buildings nestled quietly among the urban landscape. Each time life grew too noisy, I would ride my bicycle or wander through the streets at night, and then—like a castle sleeping among brambles in some fairy tale—I would see the castle that had once been the Kingdom Of Marionettes amusement park.
There was something about it that stirred my heart, that made me ache with longing, as if I myself had been left behind by this place. So compared to other buildings, I felt a little more affection for it—just enough to make out the letters on its faded sign, though the years had yellowed it and some words had nearly disappeared, leaving only traces of black.
After graduation, as winter's bitter chill descended upon that building, I found myself unable to secure a job. I accepted any work I could find, sent out thousands of applications, knocked on every door—only to receive nothing but refusals. Day after day blurred together. I sat for hours before my computer screen, scrolling through job postings, sending out resumes I had revised so many times I knew every comma, every period by heart. And then I waited. Waited in vain. Sometimes the phone would ring, my heart would leap—but it was only a call from family, or a spam message. Hope and disappointment cycled endlessly, wearing me down until I could no longer tell what I was waiting for.
It was then that I sat for the first time on a wooden bench in the park across from Kingdom Of Marionettes, and whispered:
"We are so alike. We have both been left behind."
The bench was old, its paint peeling, the seat riddled with cracks like a map of time's topography. I sat there for a long while, gazing at the castle as the sun set behind the high-rise buildings to the west, leaving a streak of orange-red across the sky like an unhealed wound. The surrounding trees were no longer lush as they had been in the memories of those who once lived here—they were barren and skeletal, dry branches reaching out like arms pleading for something. The air was bitterly cold, carrying the damp scent of earth and decay. I sat there, in that cold, feeling hollow inside. I did not cry—my tears seemed to have frozen long ago.
I do not know how long I remained there. When I finally rose, the sky had turned to deep gray, and the first stars were flickering faintly. I turned to look at the castle one last time before leaving. And in that moment, I saw a flicker of light from a window on the highest floor. Just a flash, then gone. I stood frozen, unable to look away. My heart pounded. I told myself it was merely a reflection of streetlights, or a trick of tired eyes. But deep within, a voice whispered: *It was not.*
I dragged my exhausted body back to my rented room at the top of an old building—one of the few places I could afford, and it was now barely within my grasp. That night, I pulled my blanket tight around me, my fingers turning purple with cold as I scrolled through job listings. There was almost nothing new. I leaned my head back against the chair, struggling to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. The feeling of struggling in desperation—it made it hard to breathe. My small room seemed to shrink around me, the walls pressing closer. I closed my eyes, trying to breathe deeply, but the air had grown heavy. I thought of the months that had passed, of my family's expectations, of the promises I had made to myself. All of it seemed to be collapsing.
I drifted off—not into restful sleep, but into the collapse of consciousness before exhaustion. In my dream, I found myself walking down a corridor lit by the faint glow of moonlight, so silent that I could hear the sound of my own footsteps echoing off the floor. The corridor stretched endlessly, flanked by wooden doors with intricate carvings, their paint peeling to reveal cracked, weathered wood beneath. Light and shadow played across everything, making the space all the more eerie. Moonlight filtered through arched windows, casting long streaks across the floor like reaching fingers. I saw the doors, each bearing names carved into the wood—strange names, not anyone I had ever known. I moved my lips, reading them aloud.
*Jester, Knight, Butler, Chef, Maid, Wizard, King.*
My voice echoed through the corridor like reverberations from another world. And I realized—these were not human names. They were the names of the puppets. The final puppets of the master craftsman. My heart began to race, but my feet would not stop. I kept walking, kept walking, as if an invisible force was drawing me toward the end of the hall.
Suddenly, a door swung open. Inside was utter darkness. I stood frozen, paralyzed by fear. Not a scream—but a silence so thick it suffocated. Behind me, I heard a clicking sound, like joints that had not moved in a very long time. Each sound was small, scattered, yet they echoed through the stillness like raindrops on a tin roof in the dead of night. My chest heaved. Trembling, I slowly turned around. A tall, dark figure with red eyes, dressed in strange garments, was reaching toward me. I could not make out its face—only the two red eyes blazing in the darkness, like burning coals. Its hand extended toward me, long slender fingers with distinct joints—like the fingers of a puppet.
And then I heard a voice. Not from the mouth—but from the air itself, like wind passing through cracks.
*"You said you were left behind. We, too, have been left behind. So come. Come here."*
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I woke with a start. The room was still shrouded in the dim light of dawn, the sun not yet risen. Everything was as it had been—the same old room with its damp-stained walls—but something felt different. I rolled my stiff neck, sore from sleeping slumped over, exhausted. A cold draft seeped in from somewhere. I saw that the window had been flung wide open. The room was already cold because I could not afford the heater—now it was even colder. I looked out the window. The sky was still overcast, gray clouds drifting slowly as if reluctant to release the new day. I wondered if I had forgotten to close the window the night before. But I remembered clearly that I had shut it tight—cold was the greatest enemy in this room.
I walked over to close it. The moment the latch clicked with a dry, brittle sound, my phone screen lit up—a message from a job portal, flashing insistently. My eyes widened in surprise. I had checked my inbox thoroughly the night before falling asleep. I had even checked one last time before turning off the screen, as I always did, clinging to a fragile hope that something might appear. There was nothing. And now, while I had been sleeping, a message had arrived.
I tapped it open. The message was strange, the text typed in what looked like a typewriter font—a style that felt... old-fashioned.
*Dear Sir,*
*We have received your application. After reviewing your information, we find you suitable for the position.*
*Location: Kingdom Of Marionettes Amusement Park, 1 Frost Street, Mist District*
*Position: Night Security Guard*
*Start Time: Tonight, 22:00*
*Note:*
*Please bring personal belongings as staff will reside on-site.*
My fingers trembled as I stared at the screen. A night security guard at an abandoned amusement park? Why would anyone hire a guard for an abandoned park? I wondered. But then again, I reasoned, it was still someone's property, and just because it was no longer operating did not mean it would never operate again. It was not so strange that the owner would want to protect their assets. Was it?
I pressed my lips together, whispered the words: *Kingdom Of Marionettes.*
I replied to the email as sincerely and professionally as I could. Among thousands of applications, only they had answered me—and at this hour.
*Dear Sirs,*
*I am truly grateful that you have reviewed my application and found me suitable for the position. I will pack my belongings and arrive on time.*
*If there are any matters I should be aware of, please inform me so that I may prepare accordingly.*
*Thank you.*
After my finger pressed send, a heavy weight seemed to lift from my heart. I had a job—even if it was one I had no experience in. I took a deep breath, and began making a list of my belongings, preparing for what was to come.
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*End of Chapter 1.*