Dollhouse

They waited in vain to be remembered. A fine layer of dust covered her body, over her opened eyes as she stared at the same thing she had looked at for the last several years: her sister’s arm, still cracked from when it broke and was glued back together.

A couple years ago they would be dusted and lovingly replaced in the exact same position. Before that, they would be dusted and rearranged, able to see the new additions to the room, watching the people who entered here. Before then they had been in a different room, where few people ever entered, still tended to meticulously. Before then they were moved every month, brought down from the shelf to be held by a child that didn’t belong to them, but was nice nonetheless.

Before then was when they were played with, day to day. In the house that was built for them by the child they loved.

She hadn’t seen that child in a very long time. Not even the woman she had grown into.

Not in years.

They waited for her return, the old woman she had become. For whatever she would wish of them.

They waited.

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