The Puppet

It laid silently in the corner of the room. A puppet, aged from its designated generation, remained there strewn across an unsturdy wooden chair as if waiting for another day. Its once velvety fabric was now coated with a thick layer of dust and the black buttons that served as eyes were dim and dreary, the life seemingly sucked from the thread that kept them attached.

It had laid there on the seat of the chair for what seemed like ages—in fact, the room surrounding him had not changed at all in many months. A woman and her husband lived in that house, staggering through their lives one day at a time.When they entered to dust and sweep, there was no smiling or joy. There were times when they would simply stop and stand in the doorway. To the puppet, their eyes were never more painful then when they visited the empty room.

While the room was absent of an owner, it was not absent of memories. Nothing could ease their troubles—the fallible human dimension had no remedy for the pain of losing a child.

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