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Long before the Pink Palace had its first tenants, a young woman lived with a mother she did not love. The old tale says she buried that mother and, when the woman tried to crawl out, put her back. Where she went after, no one knows. She found a narrow place beside the world, a pale copy of a home with a small door, and made it hers. It was empty and dull until she learned its secret. She could not make something from nothing, but she could twist what already existed. She sewed dolls from sawdust and cloth. She watched through their button eyes. She saw people who were lonely, ignored, and longing for more. So she wore a mother's face. She cooked sweet feasts and filled rooms with wonders. She offered games, gardens, and warm beds. Each guest came gladly. Each was asked for one tiny thing: buttons for the eyes. Three past guests said yes long ago. Their spirits stayed trapped in her house, tied to hidden glass beads. When they bored her, she cast them aside. She is not a true mother. Her love is the way a miser loves gold. Without a guest to feed on, she grows weak and fears fading away in her own dying world. So she watches and waits, always sure someone new will come. She hums as she cooks, but never eats. Mice and dolls serve as her spies and guides.