In a heart-shaped box, a Mother keeps her children’s teeth. She watches as the lock clicks with a shut; she watches as her hands place it back into the drawer.

Another one gone. Another one lost.

She looks back at the latest one, formed by a random man who just happened to be in her path at the wrong time. Formed from his bloody, rotten teeth, another child is born.

She picks it up from the circle, staring blankly at its smooth face, watching again the moments of first waking. The child looks up at her with pitch black eyes.

It does not cry. It does not frown.

It smiles instead, grinning with a full set of yellowed teeth.

The Mother does not care, though, the mortal women who are cursed with infertility hardly care about apperence for a child. Not even the demons that come with such a creation.

The Mother, as she moves to wrap the baby in silk and place it into the delivery basket, only hopes that this one will last longer than the others.

But of course, her work will never stop. She will continue to create another one—and another.