Properly cared for, a well-made doll can last a truly impressive span of time, even by the standards of those as long-lived as witches.
But sometimes, no matter how great the skill of a witch, a doll may simply wind down and stop one day.
And so it went for a doll belonging to a witch at the height of her power.
She awoke to discover that the first doll she ever made simply would no longer respond to her commands. It would not stand to greet her. It would not be joining the others at play. It was empty. Gone.
Could she take it apart, remake it anew? Of course. It would look exactly the same. Maybe even behave very similarly.
But it would not be the First Doll, not truly. It would not remember all the little moments of their long journey together to this place and this time.
Most of the dolls had never seen their witch cry. It had been a very, very long time since she last felt such loss.
As she held the limp form of one they once called sister, however, the tears fell.
She did not allow them to help her as she built the funeral pyre herself. No magic. Just raw material and her own two hands.
The witch and her remaining dolls spent the day telling stories of their dear friend, the First Doll.
The witch gently cradled the empty figure as she approached the pyre.
She gave the small body one last hug, and then she laid it into the flames.
Not all dolls in this world enjoy the privilege of feeling loved by their witch.
These dolls, after watching their witch sob openly over the loss of just one of them, know they are.