"A beloved dolls voice speaks directly to your soul in a way that cannot be explained in words."
― Gayle Wray
It had belonged to your mother before she passed.
You always loved it, though you could never exactly understand why, even now you can't.
It's an old thing, some might call it a relic of bygone ages, though under your mother's and now your care it still looks like it did the day it was made.
Your mother said it's name was "Miss Rosemary", if you recalled correctly.
You're currently tending to it in the attic, though it pains you to leave it-"her" you correct yourself here you just don't trust her to not get damaged should you bring her downstairs, and you think it would be too cruel to lock her back in her truck or shut her in a display case like some trophy.
The specially made brush glides through her locks like silk as you hum a nameless melody, this was your favorite activity as a child once your mother trusted you enough to not break her, a favorite that has carried into your adulthood.
Even if it's far past time for you to be playing with dolls.
In a way you always had preferred dolls to people, dolls weren't as harsh as children and they never age or change...so long as the proper care is taken.
People often think dolls to be soulless mindless toys, toys meant to be played with, mishandled, and thrown way once they break only to be replaced by an exact lookalike.
But they'd be wrong, oh so very wrong, dolls are very much alive dear, each with their own needs, desires and personalities if one would only learn to listen.
Adults more often than not, come to forget how to listen to their once cherished playmates, and some children too uncaring to learn how.
But not you my dear.
