Amalia Lumiera "the girl with porcelain hands" 25 cm BJD

SKU:
$408.00
315 408 $315.00 - $408.00
Unavailable
per item
Limited edition of 50 dolls
​​Height: 25cm 
Eye size: 8 mm
Head size: 3-4 inches

FULLSET (limited to 15)

featuring:  
  • Cast in Polymer resin
  • Faceup and body painting included (shown in the pictures). 
  • Jointed hands
  • Eyes included (8 mm Acrylic Eyes). 
  • Outfits, wigs, and accessories are included.

Included in the outfits set:
  • pants
  • tanktop
  • jacket
  • outer pants
  • dress
  • overcoat
  • wig

IMPORTANT NOTICE:
Ships in 90 workdays
(​This is a pre-order listing)

The item will be shipped from Indonesia via EMS/DHL.
​"Due to the Handmade process and manual resin colour mixing, minor flaws like air bubbles, impurities, and colour blemishes might occur. Some of these flaws are inevitable; however, we will strictly observe that only the best quality dolls we can produce will be shipped to you."

The girl with porcelain hands

         
​          Long ago, in a quiet glade deep within the ancient Silverwood Forest, there lived an elven couple whose hearts carried a gentle longing. Though their lives were steeped in song, moonlight, and wonder, their home held a single, tender wish for a child to love.

          For many years, they knelt beneath the rare triple-crescent moonflower, a bloom that opened only once every thousand years. And on one blessed night, when the stars shimmered like scattered jewels across the midnight sky, their prayers were answered. A soft, radiant light descended from the heavens like a falling star, and a tiny elven infant nestled within its glow.
But this child was unlike any they had seen. Her hands—from wrist to fingertip—gleamed with a smooth, porcelain sheen. Not of flesh, but flawless ceramic, laced with silver veins beneath the surface, like frost-touched vines in glass. They named her Amalia.  
​
           As Amalia grew, her parents noticed something unusual. While her porcelain hands could not feel, they could heal. With the gentlest touch, she could mend torn leaves, encourage closed buds to bloom, and calm wounded creatures. Her hands became a quiet miracle, but one she didn’t yet understand…

             Amalia was curious, eager, and full of questions. She would sit by the stream, letting the cool water run over her palms, hoping in vain to feel it. She watched her friends run barefoot through dew-drenched grass, and though she joined them, she always paused to watch the way their fingers brushed tree bark, animal fur, and each other's skin.
​
            The village children were wary of her at first. Her hands frightened them, not because they were strange, but because they were perfect. Too perfect.. But over time, they grew to love her. She couldn’t play the way the children did with their hands. She couldn’t squeeze their hands in play, but she gave them laughter. They love to seek rare berries and mend broken bird nests. When a child scraped their knee, Amalia was the first to kneel beside them. Cool fingers hovered gently over the wound until it faded. The children began to call her Little Whitehands, a nickname that made her smile. 
She began to spend hours with the village healer, learning herbs not by touch, but by scent and shape. Her memory became sharp. Her understanding is deep. Though she couldn’t feel pain, she began to understand it. She read the tremble in a rabbit’s breath, the way a tree leaned when its roots were too dry. She began to know the world not through skin, but through careful, quiet attention.
​
Yet even as she healed, a tender hollowness lived in her chest. Her hands could give, but never receive. They offered comfort but could not be comforted. And in that space between her and the world, something else began to bloom... an understanding that even pain, too, had its place in nature.
         
          Sometimes, as Amalia wandered alone through the forest, she would sense places heavy with forgotten sorrow. The air would hum with quiet grief. The remnants of a tree struck by lightning, the lonely soil where animals no longer played, the moss-covered stones where someone, long ago, had wept.
 
          There was the hollow of the fallen pine where an elder used to sit alone at dusk, haunted by the echo of a long-lost sibling they had failed to protect. Amalia touched the bark and left behind small, bright fungi that glowed faintly at night, as though the tree itself remembered a time before grief.
​
            By the twisted roots of the elder willow, she once found a young woman curled in silence, her heart broken by a friend’s betrayal. Amalia said nothing, only placed a cluster of freshly bloomed riverbells in the woman’s hand. Later, when the woman returned, she found the tree’s branches braided with blooming vines, a quiet reminder that some friendships return in different forms.

            And once, in a hidden clearing beyond the silver glen, Amelia came upon a boy who no longer spoke. His silence began during a season when two clouds followed the same path across an otherwise beautiful sky. Without warning, they crashed into one another, storm and thunder breaking so close it shook the air. Lightning split again and again, thunder roaring as the boy tried to calm the sky with pleading words, as if the world he once trusted were being torn apart above him. The clouds collided, withdrew, returned… never resting, never settling. And then, one day, they separated. The sky grew quiet, but it was not the quiet of peace. It was thinner, unfamiliar, missing the rainbow it had once offered after the storm.
                                      The boy learned that sound could call the storms back. At least silence kept the sky from breaking again.

           Amalia knelt beside him and rested her porcelain hands upon the earth. From the soil grew foxgloves and creeping thyme… plants that rise where the ground has been split, soft things that patiently stitch the earth back together. The boy returned often to tend them. One afternoon, a faint rainbow appeared… so light it seemed unsure of itself, yet whole. Watching it linger, the boy felt the sky hold. Only then did he find a word that stayed whole and whispered, “Thank you.”
​
           Amalia would kneel in these places, place her porcelain palms to the earth, and close her eyes. She couldn’t feel what the forest had endured, but the forest could feel her. Slowly, over days or weeks, wildflowers would emerge. New birds would nest. Streams would run clearer. As if the forest, gently reminded, chose to remember not just the wound, but the healing.
                                                                       
                                                                         And as the woods healed, so did those who wandered through them.
            Travelers sometimes spoke of strange peace washing over them as they passed beneath ancient branches. Children who had known fear found comfort. The lonely remembered laughter. Grief, softened by fern and pine, seemed to breathe again. They didn’t know why, but some swore they’d seen a bright, graceful figure watching gently from behind the trees.

         One autumn evening, during the Festival of Lanterns, a traveler came to the village, a cloaked man with hair like twilight and eyes full of years. No one knew his name, but everyone listened when he spoke. He watched Amalia repair a shattered clay jar with her hands, the cracks melting away beneath her fingers like morning frost.
“Child of porcelain,” he said gently, “do you know what you are?” Amalia looked up, unsure.
“You are not meant to feel,” he said.
“You are meant to remember. The world forgets.. what it was, what it loved, what it lost. But your hands restore what time tries to erase. That is their power.”
​
          From that night onward, Amalia stopped trying to be like everyone else. She leaned into her strangeness. Her hands became a gift the forest came to trust. Trees seemed to bend toward her. Birds followed her silently from branch to branch. The children whispered that she could speak with animals, though she never claimed it. What she had, instead, was presence.. watchful, steady, and full of grace.


Some say that when the old trees groan, or the river grows thin,

Amalia appears for just a moment. Others say she is only a memory, passed down by those she once helped.

But those who met her never forget the way she made them feel seen, heard, remembered.

And though she cannot feel warmth, her life gave warmth to many.
​
Because she is not a story of sadness, but a song of grace. And in her, the forest.. and the forgotten.. bloom again.
"To all the 'Amalias' out there--
There may be moments when you feel as though you do not quite fit,
or seasons when you cannot feel or do what you once dreamed of.
Remember this: each of us carries a purpose uniquely our own.
I hope life slowly unveils its path before you,
and that one day you will discover the meaning of your own
porcelain hands, and may the forest around you bloom again."
Amalia Lumiera, "the girl with porcelain hands."
written specially for you by
Donny Harijanto

​included in the fullset

picture gallery
(click to enlarge)

Comparison pictures with the 25 cm Dreamers series