“After losing her head, she realized that the rest of her body was falling apart!” you said.
“Er… okay, that’s terrible.” I looked at the doll you always played with.
“Do you think it would be good to write a story about a doll?”
“Everything is good to be written,” I smiled at you. You had grown up so fast after our parents died. You said to me you wanted to be an author and writing a bunch of amazing stories. You even told me that one day you would read your best story at mom’s grave. Just like she always did when you were going to sleep. But I felt so worried, and my fear was getting bigger and bigger. Then I looked at the doll once again, it scared me. Your story was like ready to give me a nightmare. And I was kind of tired to tell you that you were a boy, Nick. You played with dolls too much.
Written for Mondays Finish the Story