June liked odd things. That's what Daniel always said.
She liked quiet museums, crumbling poetry, cloudy skies, and objects with a past. So when he handed her a box wrapped in brown paper, her heart fluttered the way it always did with him—warm, hopeful, afraid to hope too much.
"I saw it and thought of you," he said.
Inside the box was a porcelain doll. Old, delicate. Its velvet dress had frayed at the seams, and one glass eye was scratched. The smile was faint—too faint. Like it remembered sorrow.
June tried to smile back.
"She's... beautiful," she said, even though her chest tightened.
Daniel didn't notice. Or maybe he pretended not to.
"Happy birthday," he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. "She looked lonely. I figured you'd give her a name."
June lifted the doll, cold and light in her hands. For a second, the room felt heavier. The air shifted—as if the walls leaned closer.
She blinked. The weight passed.
That night, June dreamed of smoke.
She stood in a room that was not hers, watching flames eat through wallpaper. A woman stood in the center, holding the same doll.
She didn't scream.
She just looked straight at June—and whispered a name.
A name June had never heard before.
But it made her chest ache.