Stela lingered by the doorway, her parents hovering with concerned smiles. She glanced around the room, taking in the familiar clutter—family photographs, a well-worn sofa, and the small, glass-eyed doll perched on a shelf.
"I'll be fine here, really," she assured them, trying to sound braver than she felt. The house, her childhood shelter, now belonged to her alone.
Stela settled into her new routine, making tea and listening to the creaks of the old house. She placed her favorite doll—its delicate porcelain face slightly chipped—on her bedside table, as she always had.
"Just you and me now," she whispered, brushing dust off the doll’s frilly dress.
In the middle of the night, Stela awoke to a soft, scraping sound. The doll, once upright, now lay face down on the floor, its eyes glinting oddly in the dim light.
"Did I knock you over?" she murmured, picking it up and feeling an inexplicable chill crawl up her spine.
Stela noticed small things out of place—her keys missing from the dresser, the bedroom door ajar when she was sure she had closed it. Each time she left the room, the doll seemed to shift positions, always watching.
"This isn't funny," she said aloud, her voice trembling. The doll’s painted lips seemed to curl into a tiny, mocking smile.
Unable to sleep, Stela clutched a flashlight and searched the house, heart pounding. She found the doll sitting in the kitchen, legs dangling off the countertop—a place she was certain she hadn’t left it.
"Why are you moving?" she whispered, her breath visible in the chilly air. The doll remained silent, its glassy eyes reflecting the trembling beam of light.
Stela gathered the doll, hands shaking but determined. She wrapped it in an old blanket and placed it in a box, sealing it tightly. As she set the box in the attic, sunlight streaming through the window, she finally felt the house exhale—a sigh of relief, a return to peace.
"Some things are better left in the past," she whispered, turning away, ready to reclaim her home.
