Behind the glass, the figures stand in line, Their painted smiles, unbroken, neat, composed. A perfect frame, a family so divine, yet silence hums where secrets are enclosed. The walls are bright, but shadows stain the floor, a hidden script rehearsed behind the door. The laughter cracks, the porcelain begins to bleed, a fragile mask conceals the deeper need. The table set, the silverware aligned, but voices tremble, breaking in the mind. The picture-perfect scene begins to fray, its colors fading, peeling into gray. And though the world applauds the staged display, The truth is restless, clawing to betray. Porcelain smiles disguise the shattered core, the dollhouse trembles, hollowed out once more. The curtains fall, the audience unaware, of broken glass and whispers in the air. The dolls collapse, their strings no longer tight, revealing chaos hidden from the light. Yet in the ruin, something still survives, a quiet strength that flickers, still alive. For even shattered porcelain can gleam, and broken truths may still recall a dream.