As the toy sits in the front, middle sectioned chamber of the seemingly always closed closet door, it reminisced about the days when the kids would play.

The doll is an old, textile doll that always had a different hairstyle woven into its long red hair. She had a few stitches loose; and when she used to have a hole, the mother would mend it back to looking new.

She was the favorite doll. She got stored in the closet and she could see through the cracks of the door. She saw the child becoming a teen. Every time the door opened to the closet, the doll tried and tried to seem more appealing, but over time, she had slouched. Her posture had grown sloppy, and her head was tilted so the child could not see the smile on the doll’s face.

Eventually, after years of waiting, the doll was held again. By the mother. the mother picked up the doll, putting the doll in a box and shipping it to the dump.

I purposely wrote this without describing any emotions. I wrote this so empaths could feel their own emotions, because a doll doesn’t feel, but we do. We feel