Marionettes

The green door groaned as I opened it. I stepped in and closed it behind me. I find it oddly comforting to close the spring-less doors here. It makes the shop or pub feel more like a home than a store.
“Dobrý den.”
“Dobrý den.”
Countless rows of intricate marionettes stared at me from the walls.
“Mluvíte Anglický?” I asked.
“Yes, I speak English,” the girl replied with such a near-perfect British accent that I felt stupid for even asking.
“These are fantastic,” I said, kicking myself once more. There are precious few sentences I can form in Czech, and I wasted this one with English. She smiled at me.

I walked around the shop examining the marionettes, bent as if my tail string had been tied too tightly to my controller.
“You can touch them,” she offered.
She picked up a boy marionette and he sprung to life, hopping across the table. She handed the controller to me. I awkwardly gripped it, and she corrected me. I walked him around and flailed the arms. She showed me a bit more, but conceded that she was “not a professional puppeteer.”

I noticed a familiar marionette stage for sale in the corner. I laughed and explained it was the theater I had as a child. She pointed to the theater next to it and said that her family owned that one.

Each marionette had a presence. Each was its own miniature person with its own remarkable stories to tell. I was particularly drawn to a vagabond. He was an old man with long hair and a moustache that twirled down to his collar. He had decorated his hat with a leaf, a feather, and a flower. Twigs were strapped to his satchel, and he held his walking stick tightly in his right hand. Maybe he had more stories to tell than the rest. Or maybe I saw a piece of myself in him; we were both peaceful, solitary travelers.

I assured the woman behind the counter that I would be back.