"Ib, if you could somehow see me, what would you say?

What lovely little words would tumble from your lips, what on earth would you tell me?

What would you say as you saw the ashes I sift through my fingers, what expression would you make?

Would you cry?

Would you hate me forever?

Would you run away?

Oh, even if I told you all the pretty lies that you wanted to hear?

'I didn't mean to,' or something like that.

A silly thing, it is.

You didn't see what happened, of course. I didn't let you. I didn't want you to. Who would?

I only wish the best for you. The best, of the best.

... Would you be happy?

Would you feel safe?

Would you?

Would you stay?

The dolls miss you, you know.

They miss you, oh so much.

Both of you. ... I wonder, Ib, Mary, did it hurt?

I would imagine being burnt to death would hurt.

But I was doing it to save you, yes?

...Yes, I knew you'd agree. That's a good girl." said the blue haired man as he played with the ash on the ground, lighter discarded off to the side of the room.

Now nothing, nothing could hurt Ib ever again.

Not even him.