The sun was mild, its warmth gentle as I wandered through the flea market that Saturday afternoon. I moved from stall to stall, letting my eyes wander over trinkets and treasures.
It was at a cluttered stall that I found the doll—a porcelain figure that seemed both delicate and somehow familiar.
I picked it up, feeling its lightness, and a wave of nostalgia washed over me.
The stall owner watched me with a knowing gaze, as if understanding the silent connection I felt.
I bought it for my daughter’s birthday, thinking she’d appreciate its charm.
That evening, I wrapped the doll carefully, noting its fragile appearance and the dust that clung to it.
When I handed it to my daughter, her eyes sparkled with curiosity.
She touched the doll, and suddenly, a faint crackling sound emerged from within.
“Did you hear that?”
Her voice was a mix of wonder and unease.
I nodded, unsure of what to say.
“Maybe it’s just old,” I suggested, trying to dismiss the oddity.
But the sound lingered in my mind, a subtle itch that couldn’t be ignored.
As days passed, the unease grew.
My daughter hesitated to hold the doll, her gaze wary.
At work, I found the routine comforting yet dull, the library a refuge from my thoughts.
Evenings were a blur, my husband often absent, leaving me to manage the household alone.
The doll sat in my daughter’s room, untouched, the crackling growing louder at night.
At school pickup, I overheard talk of strange objects on playgrounds.
The flea market vendor called, offering a refund, his persistence unsettling.
The week ended with a parent-teacher meeting looming, and I felt the pressure to explain my daughter’s distracted behavior.
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