By the third day, Miriam began noticing subtle changes. The doll moved on its own. Small shifts at first, almost unnoticeable. Sometimes it faced the wall when she left. Sometimes it knelt on her desk, hands folded, its glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it had spent the day praying.
She blamed herself at first. Perhaps sleep deprivation made her imagine movement. Perhaps fatigue had twisted reality.
But then she tested it. She placed the doll facing the wall before leaving for work. That evening, it faced her bed again.
She whispered jokingly, "Don't move."
That night, she awoke to find it kneeling again. Its head inclined toward her. The chill crawling up her spine was no longer physical; it was spiritual.
Her friend Lucas, a theology student, visited. The moment he touched the doll, he recoiled. "This… feels alive," he said quietly. Miriam tried to laugh it off, but her laughter faltered.
Lucas shook his head. "No. Something's watching you. Listening. Learning your habits."
That night, Miriam dreamt of church bells ringing underwater. She woke choking, the room filled with shadows that weren't hers. And the whisper came again — louder, clearer than ever:
"Miriam… you forgot to pray."
Sleep abandoned her entirely.