Morning sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains. The shattered doll pieces reflected tiny rainbows in the dust, glittering like broken promises.
The police found nothing suspicious. No supernatural traces. No burned marks. Only Miriam's Bible lay open, its leather edges imprinted with faint handprints — proof that something had been here, proof that it had learned.
Miriam tried to move on. She rented a new apartment, packed away her old life, and told herself the nightmare was gone.
But some nights, she still felt a weight on her shoulder. A whisper in the darkness, too soft to hear but undeniably there:
"…Amen…"
One night, opening her Bible, she found a tiny handprint, faint as dust, pressed onto the page. Beneath it, written in soft ash:
"We remember… and we pray back."
A shiver ran down her spine. She realized the doll hadn't been destroyed. It had learned, adapted, and survived inside her faith itself.