Year. A whole damn year since you passed away. It’s been a year since his house has been empty and lonely, without your presence and voice in it. It's been a year since he hugged you, kissed your forehead or told you how much he loves you. Well, he did say that, but you no longer hear anything. Your room is still empty and full of dust, your bed is still unmade, pens and notebooks are scattered on your table, and your favorite toys that you won't ever play again are stored in the box.

Price thought about this often. Once upon a time, he only rejoiced at how his wife’s pregnant belly appeared, how you began to kick in your mom's womb for the first time, how he chose toys and clothes for you, imagining how cute you would be. Everything was so good. You were born, he became a happy dad, you lived and grew up, went to school, and then... You are gone. Suddenly he is alone and lost again. John began to live again with you, and died with you.

Price takes a sip from his whiskey bottle before continuing to brush the wig he made which was representing your hair perfectly: the same hair length and type. That's right, he made a full-size doll of you, his precious little daughter, put you in your favorite dress, did everything to fill the void in the house. He knew it was pure despair and longing for family that were making him do it, but is it really bad to miss your child? "Braids or ponytail..? Oh, I wish you could answer me..." John murmurs, his voice raspy from the burning drink he sent down his throat. He's not drunk, not yet at least.