Curiosity gnawed at Miriam, stronger than fear. She returned to St. Mary's Church, now abandoned and warped by decades of neglect. Moss had climbed the doors. Broken windows cast jagged patterns of sunlight.
Lucas accompanied her. They descended into the basement, dusty and filled with the scent of decay. Faded drawings of children adorned the walls. In the corner lay a journal belonging to Sister Elara, the nun who had run the orphanage.
The entries were innocent at first, filled with prayers for the children. But one entry made Miriam's blood run cold:
"Some children do not survive the night. I fear they are learning too well. And the dolls… they hear everything."
Miriam realized the doll wasn't just a toy. It was a vessel, absorbing faith and fear over decades. It had learned how to pray… and how to manipulate belief.
A whisper echoed from the shadows:
"Teach me… Miriam."
Her hands shook. She realized: it was patient. It had survived for decades, waiting for someone who truly prayed, someone it could learn from.