“That sounds mad,” I whispered beneath my bed cover. “Don’t be silly. Dolls don’t talk.”
The clock chimed loudly at one o’clock in the afternoon. As my mum moved swiftly here and there like a busy bee, placing our vibrant plates on the round glass table, I sat with my two sisters, Amina and Zahra, around it, staring at each other like lined-up dolls.
“Do you know that today is the Spring Solstice?” I asked while scooping my soup with my wooden spoon.
“Of course, sis, you’re right. I learned about this with my friend Lina at school,” responded my sister Amina with great excitement.
“Really?” I chuckled in a muffled voice, savouring my juicy salad. “That sounds wonderful, Amina. The Spring Solstice is one of the important topics to learn at school, especially in geography…”
“Mummy,” interrupted my adorable three-year-old sister, Zahra, her pigtails swaying gracefully from side to side. “Can I get my orange juice now, please?”
“Not right now, dear,” replied my mum with a warm wide smile. “You should finish your fish soup first.” She settled down in her black leather chair by the window.
As we were quietly eating our meal, I turned to my sister, Zahra, and whispered, “Zahra, have you changed Red’s winter dress? I believe she might be feeling warm in it. Spring has already begun, and woollen clothing may not be suitable for her now.”
“Oh yes, Laila! I’ll change her dress!” replied Zahra, shaking her small, plump hands. “Red is my favourite doll.”
“Yes, she was a gift from Grandma before she passed away. Do you remember what she said to you?”
“Yes, she said that whenever I feel sad, I should look at this doll and remember her.”
“She also said Red was the most elegant doll she had ever made, right?”
“Yes, I remember that. Oh, how I miss Grandma. I wish she were here with us now,” she murmured sorrowfully.
Our beloved grandmother, Fatima, cherished collecting handmade dolls from a young age. When she retired, she spent most of her time sewing clothes for the dolls she made from wool and string.
Red was the last doll she made before she passed away on a sadly sombre winter day. Her sudden death was tragic for all of us and left us all in profound grief. I never believed that I would no longer see her again sitting in her cosy velvet armchair, nor hear her sewing machine whirring as her colourful textiles danced beneath the sharp needle’s beats.
“I miss her too,” I responded, gently stroking Zahra’s beautiful blonde hair. “I still can’t help but cry whenever I visit her workshop. She was gifted at making cute cotton dolls.”
“That day I was over the moon when she made Red for me!” sobbed my sister.
“Please don’t cry, Zahra,” I replied, embracing her tightly.
Suddenly, my middle sister, Amina, let out a malicious grin. “Hey, Zahra, did you know that Red turns into a monster tonight? Our teacher said that all dolls become dangerous during the Spring Solstice.”
“No, that’s not true!” yelled Zahra, burying her small head in my arms.
“Amina, stop that now!” exclaimed my mother furiously, her feet stomping beneath her seat. “That’s enough! Stop frightening your little sister. She might have nightmares because of this.”
“Sorry, Mum,” mumbled Amina. “I was just trying to be funny.”
“It’s okay, Amina. But next time, watch your tongue, okay?”
A day later, Zahra came to me and said, “You’re right, Laila. Red was happy with her new green silky dress. She told me she loves her new outfit a lot.”
“See, I told you!” I chuckled. “I know what Red likes!”
Two days later, an unexpected incident occurred. As I was lying on my bed, engrossed in my favourite science book, my little Zahra dashed into my room, grabbed my arm worriedly, and exclaimed, “Laila, Red doesn’t feel well. Red told me she hates staying indoors. I must take her outside.”
“Alright, alright. Don’t worry, my dear Zahra. Just take Red out!” I chuckled.
“Yeah, I guess,” sighed Zahra. Then she added, narrowing her small, innocent eyes. “I will take Red out. Red is sad. She cries all night. Do you think she misses Grandma?”
“Zahra, Red doesn’t cry! She cannot speak,” I replied, gently caressing her soft cheeks.
“NO, Red does cry!” she yelped.
“No, she doesn’t!”
“She does!”
“She doesn’t!”
“Laila, why don’t you believe me? I swear Red is not feeling well,” snivelled Zahra, her little heart full of sorrow.
“Oh, come on, stop crying! Red is a doll. Dolls never talk. Is that clear?”
That night, I could not fall asleep early. I could not stop thinking about my sister, Zahra. Her worried words still resonated inside my dizzy head. What if Zahra was right? What if Red, the doll, did talk?
“That sounds mad,” I whispered beneath my bed cover. “Don’t be silly. Dolls don’t talk.”
“But, what if Red…”
