My feet make their way toward the familiar door. Each panel creaks as I move. Her room is located in some dark corner of the house. I had never been inside it, only seeing the wooden name board from far away. I knock, before remembering nobody will answer.

Why am I here in the first place? She is not alive, I reason. We were not that close. And yet I am compelled to open up the door, as I was compelled to watch her life through the parts she posts of it on Facebook.

I gently turn the knob, so as to not disturb anyone. I am greeted by a life-sized doll. There is a part of it which looks human yet looks like it came out of anime. Part of me wants to run away. Though it is sitting, it is likely much taller than me.

My hand wanders to the doll's face. It seemed to be well cared for. There is no reason for a doll to be wearing this extravagant of clothes, sitting in a proper manner, if the one who had it did not love it.

My hand travels from the forehead, to the nose, then to the jaw. I run my fingers along the neck, feeling the lacy fabric collar of the blouse it is wearing.

I press on something from the back of its neck.

A quiet click is produced. After a few seconds, nothing happens. It is simply a doll for display. I am not here for this.

The bed is right there. It has a big mound of a blanket and faded pink hair on its pillows. She is there, I think.

It is frigid in this room. I feel like I'm a piece of meat hanging in the background of a supermarket, ready to be cut up into pieces. She is under that blanket.

I imagine her breathing, chest rising and falling like a real and alive person. Slowly, my hands go to the tip of the blanket.





"It's wrong to touch dead people."