Mr. Geppetto glanced over at his little wooden boy perched upon the shelf as leaned over to pet his dead cat Figaro. “Oh wouldn’t that be nice if this wooden boy of mine were real?” He asked rhetorically, Mr. Geppetto wanted nothing more than to have a real boy. He wanted something to fill the empty void of loneliness and despair he has suffered for years since losing his only son to tragically to tuberculosis, another wish he made upon a star that never came true. His wife passed some years later, but it seemed she had already given up after the passing of her child already.

All he wanted was to share his knowledge and his love of woodwork, a trade no less he would have imparted into his son if he had lived into adulthood. He tried to find some sense if peace, he got a new kitten just a few months ago, and had his beloved goldfish for about a year now, but none of these efforts seemed to replace the loneliness he has felt since losing his only son. As a final act of desperation he crafted a wooden puppet in his late sons likeness. He would sing with it, dance with it, and speak to it as if it were already real, it was real enough to him.

Mr. Geppetto dozed off while pondering heavily on the wish he made, he wanted nothing more than it to come true. The next morning he slowly arose from bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he looked over to his workbench. His little wooden boy had not moved an inch, he knew it wouldn’t, he was not so detached from reality to believe his little wooden boy would suddenly spring to life, but deep down he had hoped and dreamed. “Just another wish, ay Figaro? Of course I’m not foolish enough to believe he would come to life. But that’s alright, he’s alive to me” Mr. Geppetto stated as he pet Figaro.

For the next 7 years he carried on with his same daily routine, only now he would being his little wooden boy affixed with strings with him anywhere he went. He would talk through it at the markets, the local tavern, to children on the street, doing his best impression of a young playful child. Everyone loved seeing the puppet masters work and performance, even if his attachment seemed quite strange to some.

One morning however, Mr. Geppetto did not awake from his slumber. A neighboring florist he would often converse with every morning as he strolled by on his way to the markets grew concerned. She had not seen him in a few days, so thought she should check in on him. Peering through a northern facing window she could see the cold lifeless body of Mr. Geppetto. By this point his beloved goldfish Cleo had been long gone, and Figaro was more or less an outside cat, he would come and go at his leisure, but now he was nowhere to be found, likely outside somewhere on the hunt for a meal. But the Florist noticed clutched in Mr. Geppetto’s arms, that most loved little wooden boy of his.

With no family to speak of, the local townsfolk that knew the kind, lonely carpenter held a funeral. He was ultimately buried in a nondescript plot of land, buried holding his little wooden boy in his arms. The Florist adopted Figaro the cat and took care of him for the remainder of his life, and in accordance to Mr. Geppetto’s will his clocks were distributed to the townsfolk he would interact with daily. For a bit he was remembered, but as time goes on some things just fade and people are forgotten.

A thousand years have passed, Pinocchio, now slightly petrified but still in relatively good condition as a testament to Mr. Geppetto’s craftsmanship lay there for a thousand years with his father, who was now no more than a pile of dust and some fragments of bone, remaining completely still, until finally, the coffin filled with a bright blue light. Pinocchio gasped his first breath, although he didn’t really need air to survive. He was suddenly filled with overwhelming panic, why was it so dark? What was happening, where was he? Why was he here? The only sound he could hear were some nearby crickets chirping that had made Geppetto’s coffin their home. Pinocchio pounded on the top of the coffin, yelling and screaming to be let out, but his screams were unheard.

It is said if you walk through that cemetery on a quite and clear night, at an unmarked grave you can barely hear the screams of a restless soul. Or maybe it is just the wind.

Note: I probably shouldn’t have typed this on my phone, so bare with me.

Edit: Formatting.