The First True Scare

The afternoon sun, usually a cheerful splash of gold across Emma’s bedroom floor, felt muted today, as if a thin veil had been drawn across the sky. Emma sat cross-legged, her bright eyes fixed on the dollhouse. It was a magnificent thing, a miniature replica of their own home, with tiny furniture and even smaller curtains. Melissa had made it for her. Melissa, who was tall and dark and smelled faintly of rain and old books. Melissa, who always knew what Emma wanted before Emma even knew herself.

“She’s so real, Mama,” Emma had declared just yesterday, her voice brimming with wonder as she’d carefully placed a minuscule teacup on the dollhouse table. “Melissa made it all by herself. She said it’s for when I want to have tea parties with her.”

Salsa had smiled, a little strained. The dollhouse, a marvel of intricate detail, had appeared overnight, nestled on Emma’s rug as if it had simply sprouted from the floorboards. It was beautiful, yes, but the sheer speed and perfection of its creation, coupled with Emma’s insistence that Melissa had *made* it, sent a shiver down Salsa’s spine. Melissa’s gifts were becoming… a lot.