A few days later, Clara stood by the apartment window, watching people stroll past below — children laughing, students rushing to class, couples walking hand in hand.
Life moved fast here.
Everyone had somewhere to go, something to do.
Clara had spent so many years only watching life.
Now, for the first time, she wanted to be part of it.
That morning, after Lily left for class, Clara placed a small table in front of the apartment building. She covered it with a pale cloth, set out neat little boxes, and filled them with the cookies she'd made the night before — chocolate chip, butter shortbread, and a few of her own secret recipes.
She wrote a small handwritten sign:
> "Homemade Cookies – £2 per pack"
At first, people just passed by. Some smiled politely, others didn't notice her at all. But soon, a little boy stopped and tugged at his mother's hand.
"Can I have one, please?" he asked, eyes wide.
His mother smiled and bought a pack. The boy took a bite, and his face lit up.
"It's really good!" he said, crumbs on his cheek.
Clara couldn't help but smile. "I'm glad you like it."
That was all it took.
Word spread around the block.
By noon, a few students came by to buy cookies before class, and an elderly woman stopped to chat with her every afternoon.
Clara began to recognize their faces — the man with the briefcase who always bought two packs, the little girl who traded her pocket change for one cookie at a time, and the shopkeeper next door who said,
"Your cookies remind me of home."
---
Each day became brighter.
Clara felt something new inside her — not just contentment, but purpose.
She wasn't a trapped soul anymore, or a forgotten relic of the past.
She was someone's neighbor, someone's baker, someone real.
---
When Lily came home and saw the little table in front of their building, her eyes widened.
"Clara! You're selling your cookies?"
Clara nodded shyly. "I thought… maybe people would like them. And I like seeing everyone smile."
Lily laughed, rushing to hug her. "You're amazing, you know that? Everyone in the building is talking about 'the kind lady who makes the best cookies in Brighton.'"
Clara smiled faintly. "Kind lady," she repeated softly. "I think I like that better than 'museum doll.'"
They both laughed — but for Clara, the words meant something deeper.
For the first time in her long, strange life, she was not a possession, not an artifact, not a ghost in glass.
She was alive.
---
At sunset, when the last customer had gone and the streets turned golden, Clara gathered her things and looked at the empty cookie trays.
A quiet pride warmed her heart.
The world had changed so much since the day she'd been created. But somehow, she had found her place in it again — not as Jacob the silent doll, but as Clara, the gentle baker of Brighton.