Dolls. Dead dolls. I've got a closet full of them. Porcelain treasures waiting to be restored. I feel a pang of guilt every time I look over those shattered features, missing eyes and whisps of polyester.

I can't even remember where I got all these things. I really should empty the closet before it's too late.

I closed the door and took the stairs three floors down to daylight. As soon as I hit the sidewalk I heard him calling me.

"Emma! Emma, help!"

And then it was too late. He tripped against their hooves and disappeared beneath the carriage. Poor child.

I drug his body up the stairs, into the darkness. At each pause in the stairs someone had hung a clock. The clocks hung loudly. I couldn't even feel the weight of his body by the fourth clock.

The dolls in the closet began to stir.

It was about five in the morning.


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