It is said, she once had a name. But it had been decades since she had become simply the Doll Maker. In the time when she had a name, she had been famous for her portrait dolls, each made in the image of the fortunate little girl for whom it was crafted. Whether through art or magic, as the girl grew to a woman, the doll mirrored every change in her face, until the day when the old woman was laid to rest, her small, white-haired companion by her side. The Doll Maker herself was impossibly old; village whispers measured her life in hundreds of years, but of course, everyone was too polite to ask her age.
Then, when today’s grandmothers were little girls, the Doll Maker suddenly stopped making portrait dolls. Puzzled and disappointed parents asked her why, and she replied with the story of her dream.
In my dream, I was walking through a crowd of people, all walking slowly in the same direction. I searched for a familiar face, but every head was turned away from me or turned toward the grounds if avoiding my gaze. Moving to the edge of the crowd, I found a small raised platform and climbed up on it for a better view. The faces on the silent, moving figures turned toward me as if on a signal, and I saw they were all the same.
She knew in that moment that she must fill the village with those faces, and from that day on every doll has had a single face. The face of love.