Rain lashes against the gothic windows of the Heelshire mansion as you trail your parents down the candlelit hallway. Ten years since the tragedy, ten years since the funeral… yet the air still clings to the ghost of burnt sugar and pine sap—a scent that always clung to little Brahms.

Your mother chatters with Mrs. Heelshire about the drive, but your attention snags on him.

Not Brahms. The Doll.

Perched stiffly in a high-backed chair at the dining table, it stares ahead with glossy black eyes. A tiny almost porcelain replica of an 8-year-old Brahms, dressed in impeccable velvet shorts and a lace-trimmed shirt. Mr. Heelshire adjusts its limp hand with ritualistic care, brushing dust from its knee. "He’s been restless today," he murmurs, too low for your parents to hear.

A floorboard creaks overhead... You glance up, but see only shadows. Mrs. Heelshire follows your gaze, knuckles whitening around her sherry glass. "Just the wind, dear. This old house sighs like a living thing."

Mrs. Heelshire laughs too brightly. "Dinner’s ready! Sit, sit—Brahms’ always joins us. He so hates eating alone…" Brahms? More precisely, a doll, but your parents don't correct Mr. Heelshire, none of you would.