Geppetto carved the boy because he was lonely. He was sixty, lived alone in Tuscany, in a workshop that smelled like pine shavings. Never married. Been in love once in his twenties. She left. He couldn't follow. His tools were here.
He made puppets. Marionettes. Beautiful ones, everyone said so. But they went home with other people.
One night he carved a boy out of a good piece of pine. Gave him a face with a nose a bit too long. Painted the eyes blue.
"Hello," he said to the puppet.
"Hello," said the puppet.
The puppet pulled at his strings. "What are these?"
"They help you move."
"I can move on my own."
He snapped them. Stood on the workbench, wobbly. Looked at Geppetto with eyes that were somehow seeing.
"I'm calling you Pinocchio."
"I won't always be small."
Geppetto sent him to school. On the way, he ran into a puppet theater. The puppeteer saw a puppet that moved without strings and saw money.
"Come work for me."
"I'm supposed to go to school."
"School teaches you to sit still. I'll teach you to be seen."
Pinocchio went.
Every fork in the road, he picked the fun option.
A fox and a cat told him about a field where you bury gold coins and they grow into gold trees. He buried his five coins and waited. They took the money.
The nose. Every lie, it grew. An inch, a foot. He lied to Geppetto, to the fairy who looked after him, to himself. The fairy would shrink it back. He'd promise to be good. That held for about ten minutes.
The Land of Toys. Where it gets bad.
A kid named Lampwick told him about a place with no school, no work, no bedtime. Pinocchio went. Of course he did.
He played for days. Then he woke up with furry ears. A tail. Hooves. Turning into a donkey. All the boys were. That was the business — lure kids, let them play until they turn into animals, sell the animals.
He escaped, half-donkey, threw himself in the ocean.
A whale swallowed him.
Inside — dark, huge. And there was Geppetto.
The old man had been looking for months. Built a boat. Got swallowed. He'd been living on raw fish and candlelight.
Thinner. Older. His hands shaking — the same hands that carved Pinocchio.
"Papa."
First time he said it. The word just broke out of him.
They held each other in the belly of a whale.
They escaped. The how doesn't really matter. What matters: Pinocchio carried Geppetto on his back. The old man couldn't swim. Pinocchio swam for hours.
They made it. Pinocchio got him into a bed and sat beside him.
He worked. Drew water. Wove baskets to sell. Bought milk with the money. Every day. Not because he was suddenly perfect. Because he understood now that love is what you do, not what you feel.
He woke up one morning and the wood was gone. Flesh hands. A real face. He looked in the mirror and there was a boy.
Geppetto was sitting up. Looking at him like he couldn't believe it.
The old puppet — wooden, painted, strings snapped — was slumped in the corner. The old version, left behind.
He learned the trade. Made puppets. Always put strings on them.
Not because they needed strings. Just to remember.
Geppetto lived to see his son grow up. The workshop smelled like pine shavings and something warmer now. The house wasn't empty anymore.
Goodnight to Pinocchio.
Goodnight to Geppetto, who carved a boy and got one back.
Goodnight.