I had always been a quiet manager—unassuming, forgettable in the eyes of others.
The kind of person you see every day but never truly notice. My life was a carefully maintained routine of silent commutes, distant conversations, and lonely meals.
I never spoke much unless necessary, and I suppose over time, people stopped expecting me to. There was nothing particularly tragic about it—it just was.
I was alone, and I had accepted that. Or maybe I convinced myself I had.
It was on one of those uneventful nights that everything changed.
The rain had just stopped. The streets were still slick, reflecting the dim yellow glow of old streetlights, and the air carried the scent of wet pavement and cold metal.
I had worked late—again—and the world was as quiet as my thoughts. That's when I saw it.
There, just by the alleyway near the old bookstore, was a box. It was soaked, barely holding together under the weight of whatever was inside.
Curiosity tugged at me, and I stepped closer.
Inside the box sat a doll.
It was worn and dirty, its pale cloth skin stained and smudged with time. But what caught my attention—what held me there, frozen in place—were its eyes.
Enormous glass eyes, far too vivid, far too real. They seemed to shimmer slightly under the streetlight, reflecting something… unnatural.
And yet, I didn’t walk away.
Instead, I bent down, hesitated for just a moment, then gently picked it up.
It was oddly warm.
I took it home.
Little did I know, the doll was cursed all along.
Back in my small apartment, I placed it by the kitchen sink. I didn’t know why. Maybe because it felt like a strange, fragile thing that needed watching over.
Maybe because, for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t entirely alone.
I just stood there, staring at it under the flickering fluorescent light.
Its eyes… they weren’t like glass anymore. They looked deeper. Almost as if something was behind them, watching me too.
I tilted my head, studying its face as if I could figure out where it had come from, what stories it might carry.
A faded red ribbon tied around its neck was fraying at the edges, and its tiny hands were clenched tightly—stitched in place, but still unsettlingly lifelike.
A shiver crept down my spine.
I should’ve thrown it away.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I gently wiped the dirt from its face with a damp cloth and placed it on a shelf in my bedroom.
That night, I didn’t sleep well. I dreamed of soft giggles and cold fingers brushing against my cheek. And when I woke up, the doll was no longer on the shelf.
It was sitting on my desk, facing me.
Its head slightly tilted. As if curious.
As if smiling.