Lily Carter was eleven years old and collected everything shiny. She had a shelf full of glittery stickers, sparkling pens, and a jar of marbles that caught the light just right. Lily lived with her grandma in a small blue house while her parents worked in the city. Grandma was kind but forgetful, always baking cookies and telling long stories about the old days.

One rainy afternoon, a big brown box arrived on the porch. Grandma clapped her hands.

“This came from your great-aunt Clara’s house,” she said. “She passed last month. Open it, dear.”

Lily tore the tape. Inside, wrapped in yellowed tissue, sat a porcelain doll. The doll had curly golden hair, rosy cheeks, and big blue eyes framed by real lashes. She wore a frilly pink dress trimmed with lace.

“She’s beautiful,” Lily whispered.

A tag hung from the doll’s wrist:

EMILY

Grandma smiled. “Clara loved that doll. Said it was her best friend when she was little.”

Lily carried Emily upstairs to her bedroom. The walls were painted lavender, pop-star posters taped everywhere. She placed the doll on the dresser, facing the bed.

That night, Lily brushed her teeth and climbed under the covers. She glanced at Emily.

The doll stared straight ahead, eyes wide open.

Lily turned off the light. Darkness filled the room except for the glow of a streetlamp through the curtains.

She closed her eyes.

Blink.

Lily sat up. Did the doll just blink?

No way. Dolls don’t blink.

She stared hard. Emily’s eyes stayed open. Unmoving.

“Trick of the light,” Lily muttered, lying back down.

Sleep came slowly.

Morning sunlight woke her. Lily stretched and looked at the dresser.

Emily was tilted slightly. Her head turned toward the bed.

Lily frowned. She had placed her straight.

She fixed the doll again, facing forward. “Stay put.”

At breakfast, Grandma asked about the doll.

“She’s pretty,” Lily said. “But I think she’s watching me.”

Grandma chuckled. “All dolls watch. That’s what makes them special.”

School dragged that day. At lunch, Lily told her best friend Maya, who was loud, funny, and covered in jangling bracelets.

“A blinking doll?” Maya said. “Creepy! Bring her to show-and-tell.”

“No way,” Lily said. “She’s mine.”

After school, Lily did homework at her desk. Emily watched from the dresser.

Scribble. Scribble.

Lily felt it—like eyes pressing into the back of her neck.

She spun around.

Emily’s head had turned again. Facing her.

Lily’s heart skipped. She marched over and straightened the doll.

“Stop that.”

Porcelain didn’t listen.

That evening, Grandma called her for dinner. Lily left her room.

When she returned, Emily sat on the desk chair.

Not the dresser.

Lily froze. “Grandma!”

Grandma hurried upstairs. “What is it?”

“The doll moved!”

Grandma picked Emily up gently. “She probably fell. Old things shift.”

But the dresser was across the room.

Grandma placed the doll back. “See? All set.”

Lily nodded, but doubt crept in.

At bedtime, Lily changed into her pajamas and glanced at the dresser.

Emily’s eyes were closed.

These weren’t blinking eyes. They were painted open.

Lily rubbed her eyes and looked again.

Emily’s eyes were wide open.

She shivered and turned off the light quickly.

In the dark, she heard it.

A soft thump.

Then another.

Like tiny feet on wood.

Lily pulled the covers over her head. Her heart pounded.

The sounds stopped.

She peeked out. In the moonlight, Emily stood on the dresser.

Relief washed over her.

Sleep came with uneasy dreams—of a little girl in pink, playing alone in a dusty room, calling for someone to stay.

Lily woke to sunlight.

Emily sat at the foot of her bed.

On the blanket.

Lily screamed.

Grandma rushed in. “Goodness!”

“How did she get there?”

Grandma looked worried now. “I don’t know.”

They moved Emily to the hall closet and shut the door.

That day, Lily played outside with Maya, trying to forget the doll.

At dinner, Grandma baked chicken. Lily helped set the table.

Creak.

From upstairs.

They froze.

Another creak.

Slow footsteps.

“Stay here,” Grandma whispered, climbing the stairs.

Lily followed anyway.

The closet door stood open.

Emily sat on the top step, staring down at them.

Grandma gasped. “Clara used to say Emily wanted to play forever.”

“She moves when we don’t look,” Lily whispered.

Grandma wrapped the doll back in tissue and placed her in the box. They taped it shut and carried it to the basement, setting it on a high shelf.

“Goodbye,” Lily said.

That night, Lily slept with the light on. No thumps. No creaks.

Morning came quietly.

After breakfast, Lily went upstairs for her shoes.

Emily sat on her pillow.

Unwrapped. Smiling.

A note was pinned to her dress:

I WANT TO PLAY

Lily screamed.

Grandma ran upstairs. Her face went pale.

“Clara told me once,” Grandma whispered. “Emily doesn’t like being alone.”

They grabbed the doll, ran outside, and threw the box into the trash bin. The lid slammed shut.

“She’s gone,” Lily said, hugging Grandma.

“Yes,” Grandma said.

That afternoon, a delivery truck arrived.

Another box.

Smaller.

Grandma opened it.

Inside sat a tiny doll with the same face. Smaller dress. Smaller shoes.

A tag read:

EMILY JUNIOR

A card lay beneath it.

From Aunt Clara’s collection. She wanted you to have them all.

Lily stared.

The little doll blinked.

Slowly.

Only when Lily looked away.

And back.

Waiting.

To play.

Forever.

Lily never collected dolls again.

She stuck to marbles.

Shiny ones.

Things that couldn’t blink.

Or move.

Or want her attention when she wasn’t looking.

But sometimes, in the quiet house, she heard tiny thumps.

From the basement.

Or the closet.

Or under her bed.

And she never looked away for long.

Just in case.