Something was a little off about it. I'm not quite sure what.
I don't know if it's a boy or girl. The funereal garb it wears doesn't give it away - boys used to wear dresses when they were babies, too.
It's hands are dried and cracked and dirty, as if it has been digging in the dirt. I found pine splinters under its fingernails, as if it clawed its way through wood. Don't you think its hand looks needy, as if wanting someone to hold onto?
Yet, it looks so peaceful, as if it has slept for hundreds of years.
It has had so much time to dream, but I think its nightmares have damaged it permanently.
After it came into my home, its eyes opened while I wasn't looking.
They say eyes are the window to the soul, but when I look at its eyes, I see nothing but dull, flat colors above its pinched nostril and blood-kissed lips.
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