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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