Father, you told me, when I awoke, that I was not a real boy. Then did I notice my skin was wood. But I longed to be real, I begged you to make me so. You told me I had no heart in my hollow chest, and unless I found one I would remain this way forever, a puppet.

But you gave no time to my search, for I had a job to do. When you pulled my strings, I danced until I was sure my brittle legs would break. I danced and danced, but the money was never enough. This is why I had to leave, Father, to find my heart elsewhere.

My travels took me far, and still I could not find what I needed. I spent time in the theatre and aboard a ship, always searching. And the people I met, they were strange Father, not like you. Some found love and others did not, did not seek it. And when they danced, it was for themselves. Hearts beat in their chests, and when I feel my own chest, I swear one beats there too.

So I am sorry father, but I fear you were mistaken. I have always been a real boy. Even with some strings on me.