My name is Lina.
People would probably see me as a strange girl—and honestly, I think the same about myself. But it never really bothered me.
All this time, I've lived with Father, the only person who could make my days feel warm.
That morning, I was lifting a flower pot that had just bloomed. Its petals were so bright they made me smile wide.
"Heave up!" I said as I lifted it higher.
I loved taking care of the flowers in our small yard. Father always said that every time I touched the soil, the flowers seemed to grow as if they understood my presence.
And I believed him.
"Father! Look, it bloomed again!" I called out as I ran toward the house.
But as I moved, something happened the thread on my arm snagged on the edge of the pot. There was a small sound, **rrip**, like something tearing. But I pretended not to hear it.
Well… I was different. Very different from other people. My body wasn't like theirs.
Not like any normal human.
Because I...
Before I could finish the thought, Father called from inside the house, his voice warm as always. "Lina! Hey, Lina!"
I turned, still hugging the flower pot.
"Yes, Father! I'm here!"
And as usual, I hurried toward his voice, trying to hide the slightly torn arm.
"I'm coming, Father!" I said, running toward the workroom. The flower pot wobbled in my arms, but I tried my best to keep it steady.
Then suddenly, I felt a strange sensation on my shoulder as if something came loose.
"Ah…?" I looked down, startled as small bits of white cotton fell to the floor.
With a soft sound, something dropped beside my foot.
My left arm.
Again.
I stared at it, lying among the flowers I held,
as if it were just some unimportant little object. "Ah… it fell off again," I muttered, a bit embarrassed, a bit resigned. It wasn't the first time, Not the second, Not even the tenth.
The delicate threads that held my body together had long grown old. Father often repaired them, but I could never stay completely intact.
I looked at the torn spot on my shoulder, soft cotton still pushing out through the loosened stitches.
Because I…am not human.
My body was stitched from fabric and filled with cotton, shaped by hands full of love.
That is who I am. Lina, the doll girl who tries to live her days like an ordinary child.
Even if I'm fragile, even if I fall apart again and again…I still want to smile.
As long as Father calls my name, as long as I can answer him, I feel alive.
Father appeared in the doorway, his face shifting instantly to worry when he saw my arm on the floor.
"Lina…? Again? Didn't I tell you not to lift heavy things?" His voice was firm, but filled with concern.
I quickly picked up my arm with my remaining hand. "Sorry, Father…" I said quietly, looking down.I knew he wasn't angry. He just didn't want to see me damaged again.
"But! But!" I quickly broke into a wide smile, trying to brighten the mood. "I wanted to show you something!"
Father blinked in surprise, but his lips softened as he saw me waddling toward him, trying to hide my torn arm.
"Look!" I said, lifting the little flower I had picked.
It was a simple flower, its petals a pale yellow, but to me, it was the most beautiful gift I could offer.
Father looked at me, his gaze softening.
"Oh… a flower from the yard?"
"Pretty, isn't it? I found it near the fence! It's for you, Father!" I said, hopping slightly as I handed it to him, trying to look cheerful even though my body trembled from missing an arm.
Father chuckled a warm laugh that always made me feel safe. "Yes, yes… I know. Thank you, Lina."
He took the flower gently, as if it were something precious.
"Lina… you always manage to make me smile."
And in that moment, the world felt bright.
Father… truly was a kind person.
---
Father always paid attention to me, even to the smallest things that others might consider trivial.
When my arm fell off, he patiently sewed it back, making sure the threads were strong and neat. He never complained, not even once, even though he had to redo it countless times.
If my clothes got dirty because I fell or played too enthusiastically in the yard, Father would clean them carefully.
"Look at you," he'd say with a small laugh, though I knew he was worried.
"You're so full of energy, Lina."
And every night, when it was time to sleep,
Father would sit beside me and read me stories. I always nestled under the blanket, listening to his calm voice. A voice that made me feel safe.
"Father, you're so warm…" I whispered, leaning closer to him.
He would just smile and pat my head gently, like he always did. "Sleep, Lina. There will be more flowers waiting for you tomorrow."
Father…
He always made me feel like a real child.
But deep inside, I knew something I never dared to say That all this comfort, all this warmth, might not last forever.