She knew he would only get angry if she kept asking questions, so she desisted. She could always tell when it was better for her to keep quiet. So she would put on a brave face, turn into a strong little woman who knew how to fend for herself, and make their home into her own private castle.

But it had been an odd night. First, that stranger had rung their doorbell, and afterwards Lucia had heard her father rifling through every drawer and closet in the house. In the morning, Lucia had found all the cupboards still open, their contents spilling out onto the floor. It had taken her hours to put everything back where it belonged.

That was how she’d found the gift, underneath a pillow her father had flung into the corridor.

She had stared at it for a long time before she’d worked up the courage to touch it. She knew it was meant for her; she could tell the stranger had left it by her bedroom door intentionally. He must have snuck in while her crazed father was busy ransacking the rest of the house.

As Lucia swept the porch, the ragdoll sat there staring at her. It was a strange little thing, and that was what Lucia liked about it: it was like no other doll in the world. It had been sewn with twine, in coarse stitches that stood out on the jute fabric. Its hair was made out of horsehair and had the same lingering scent that the stranger’s visit had left in the house: a pungent but not unpleasant animal odor, the smell of nature and its cycles of life and death. Wild, warm. Lucia had breathed it all in and wondered why she’d been given that gift. She had run her hands over the doll’s dress, which was made from bits of fabric and dried cornflowers—papery, deep blue petals that a large, gentle hand, that’s how she pictured it, had stitched onto the dress, all for Lucia to enjoy. It was the same shade of blue she had seen in the stranger’s eyes when she had cracked her bedroom door open and looked out the previous night.

On the doll’s face there was nothing else but two purplish berries that served as eyes; the man who’d made it hadn’t bothered to give it a mouth. And like its maker, the doll was expressionless. Lucia thought it might have something to do with the way he spoke—she’d heard him while she’d been eavesdropping.

Lucia had picked up a felt tip pen and drawn a mouth on the doll’s heart-shaped face, wishing its maker would also smile, just like the doll was doing now.

The wind changed direction, making the doll’s dress billow, and carrying its scent to Lucia. It was almost like a summons.

“I’ll be quick,” said the girl. “Then we can play.”