The attic smelled like dust and time.
Alice tiptoed inside, clutching a flashlight in one hand and her stuffed rabbit in the other. It was her fourth week in the new house, and every room had become a little more familiar—except this one.
Curiosity had finally won.
Elvin had warned her not to come up here alone, but she wasn't doing anything dangerous. She just wanted to explore. The floor creaked beneath her bare feet as she moved through stacks of old boxes and suitcases. Her flashlight flickered over faded labels: "Books," "Winter Clothes," "Dad's Tools."
Then she saw the box tucked furthest back—worn, taped in haste, and labeled in smudged ink: "Alice — Old Toys."
Her breath caught.
She dropped to her knees and peeled the tape slowly. Inside were her things—small plastic animals, crayon drawings, a music box with chipped paint… and then, at the bottom, her.
Rosie.
Her favorite porcelain doll.
Rosie had a pale face, long dark lashes, and soft blond curls. She wore a blue dress with white lace. Alice remembered brushing her hair before bed every night, whispering secrets into her ear, pretending she was her sister when the world felt too lonely.
With trembling hands, Alice lifted Rosie out of the box.
And that's when she saw it.
A deep crack across the doll's porcelain cheek. Her right eye hung slightly lower than the left, frozen in a half-closed gaze. One shoe was missing. Her delicate hand had snapped off at the wrist.
Alice stared, frozen. Her breath hitched. "No…"
The attic suddenly felt colder.
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the edges of Rosie's broken face. "You were supposed to wait for me…"
She clutched the doll to her chest and sank to the floor. Grief rippled through her like a fresh wound. Not just for the doll—but for the parents who gave her the doll. For the childhood she couldn't hold onto. For the warm vacation that had ended in sirens and silence.
She hadn't cried like this in a while. Not since the night she clung to Elvin in the hospital, refusing to let go.
Now the sobs came fast, messy and breathless.
She didn't hear the attic door creak open.
Didn't hear Elvin's boots ascend the stairs.
But she felt it when he knelt beside her and rested a warm hand on her shoulder.
"Alice?"
She couldn't answer.
He gently took the doll from her hands. She didn't fight it.
He examined Rosie's cracked face, then glanced at Alice—red-eyed, shaking, and clinging to the past with all her strength.
"I didn't know this was in here," he said quietly.
Alice wiped her nose on her sleeve. "She was… my favorite. Mama gave her to me when I turned seven."
He nodded.
"I… I used to pretend she was my sister. I used to… I used to sleep with her beside me when I was scared."
A pause. Then she whispered, "Why did everything have to break?"
Elvin didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled her into his chest, the way he used to when she had nightmares.
"Some things break," he said, voice low. "Even the things we love. But it doesn't mean we throw them away."
He placed Rosie gently on his lap.
"We fix what we can. We keep the rest in our hearts."
Alice sniffled. "She's too broken."
"She can still sit on your shelf, right? She can still be with you."
She nodded weakly.
"I'll glue her hand back tonight. It won't be perfect," he said, "but she'll be yours again."
Something about those words—'yours again'—made her cry harder. This time, into Elvin's shirt.
He didn't hush her. He just let her cry.
Let her break, the way Rosie had.
Later, he carried her down from the attic, doll in one hand, Alice curled in the other.
That night, Rosie sat on the shelf above Alice's bed—still cracked, still imperfect, but standing proud in her blue dress.
Alice fell asleep holding her bunny. But it was Elvin who watched over her the longest, gaze lingering on both doll and girl, wondering which of the two was more fragile.
And praying, silently, that he could protect one without breaking the other.