It took me 2 solid years in the crummiest part of Queensland to build the perfect set.

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Some people collected stamps or coins, but even those few elusive penny blacks or 2012 red poppy $2 coins could not compare to my perfect set.

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But as usual, peace was not on the cards for me.

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The first thing I noticed was the change in the air, as if my collection had learned how to breathe without my permission.

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Collections should be quiet; they should be obedient, existing only to be admired as a whole. This one, though… this one had begun to whisper sneaky thoughts, snide little comments to inspire each other.

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I saw the flash in their eyes the moment they thought they had a chance, the slim flicker of hope, the kind of thing that spreads if you ignore it.

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It irritated me more than it worried me.

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I built this set carefully over months, until everything was balanced. A red, a brown, a black… and now the blonde, the final one that completed my perfect set. Perfection requires attention; all the little details had to match, from skin hue to eye colour, they all had to be the same, and only natural hair colours would work in the long term.

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So, when the rhythm in my collection room shifted, I noticed.

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When the glances lingered a little too long, I noticed.

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When silence carried hope instead of fear, I noticed.

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They thought they were so clever. A look passed here, a pause there, movements timed perfectly to the house settling around us.

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They thought they had a plan to escape to the street and wait for people, as fragile and clumsy as that was; they had stitched it together in the dark like children playing pretend.

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I allowed it to grow. To let them believe they were unseen, that they would find some hidden space beyond my reach, where they could finally be free. It made the inevitable ending so much sweeter that way.

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When they finally broke out of my containment room, I was there.

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I didn’t rush; there was no need. The certainty of my triumph settled deep within my chest as I silently stepped out of the dark.

The crunch of my feet on the raw concrete floor was enough to unnerve the girls; hesitation was their downfall.

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There was no shouting, no chaos, just the quiet realisation that the game they thought to play had never been theirs to win.

I opened the door to the basement, and with it, their hope imploded.

 

Carefully, patiently, I put everything back where they belonged, until the room was perfect once more.

The movement back upstairs was automatic: heel, turn, balance, something I had practised long before I became the collector.