Mercy, the Unstruck Doll

The doll was called **Mercy**. Its porcelain face was cracked, the fracture running

through one glassy eye like a flaw it refused to hide. A warning was stitched into its faded dress

in careful red thread: *Do not strike.* Everyone did anyway. Mercy was easy to knock over.

A careless elbow, a burst of anger, a laugh followed by a shove. When the doll hit

the floor, the sound lingered longer than it should have—sharp, final.

And after that sound, something always followed its owner home. Not a voice.

Not a presence. Just a thought that grew heavier each night: *You are broken.

The world would be quieter without you.* It wrapped itself around memories, sharpened regrets,