Miriam Cole had never received gifts she didn't ask for. Yet, that Sunday, the world seemed to conspire in silence. Rain had fallen in sheets, turning the streets slick and shiny, and the wind carried the faint smell of wet leaves and old wood. On her doorstep lay a package — brown paper, tied with twine, and her name written in elegant, looping ink: "MIRIAM COLE."
She hesitated. The handwriting seemed familiar yet impossible. She didn't recognize it.
Inside, there was a porcelain doll. Its cotton dress was faded to yellow, delicate lace at the collar, and tiny silver crosses stitched across the front. Its eyes were glassy brown — too clear, too aware for a toy that had apparently sat forgotten for decades. Its porcelain hands were folded as if praying. Its face was gentle… almost comforting… almost alive.
When she lifted it, warmth pulsed through her fingers, not the warmth of sunlight or body heat — something deeper, almost breathing. Miriam's skin prickled. "Cute… and creepy," she whispered. She placed it on the shelf near her bed. Facing her bed, like a silent guardian.
That night, sleep did not come. She awoke at 3:17 a.m. with the faintest whisper curling through the shadows. "…amen…" Her eyes snapped open. The doll was on the floor, not where she had placed it. Its head tilted toward her, lips parted slightly. Miriam froze, her heart hammering.
The warmth hadn't left. It seeped from the doll like trapped breath. And she knew — somehow — that it had been aware while she slept.