She sat upon the shelf.
Waiting. She was, after all, a doll. She was no longer played with, no longer taken from the shelf and admired in her black outfit and bows. Not the maid, who would come in and pick her up and set her back on the shelf. Not the sister, who would flounce in and brush her hair. Not even the little girl she belonged to, who would admire her for hours at a time.
So she sat upon the shelf, forgotten.
No one opened the attic anymore. No one saw the bright, muffled fire in the doll's china eyes. No one looked into the dusty darkness, no one saw the lovely china doll as she wasted away, forever unloved and forgotten.
So she sat upon the shelf, burning like a dark coal that was hidden beneath a smoldering pile of ashes.
So today, if the dark-eyed little girl found herself stumbling up the attic steps, in search of her beautiful china doll, she would find nothing in its place.
