First Frays

The days slipped by like beads from a broken rosary. Maya had become a constant presence by the lake. The young woman with amber hair now made a habit of setting up her easel in front of the shimmering water, her sleeves rolled up despite the morning chill, her brushes scattered across the grass like colorful promises.

She never asked indiscreet questions. She was simply there — painting the lake’s shifting reflections, smiling when their eyes met. Sometimes, she would offer Léa a brightly colored lollipop, a sweet reminder of childhood, or they would leaf through one of her travel journals, filled with hasty sketches and crumpled ticket stubs. Fragments of life, shared wordlessly. These small gestures sparked a feeling in Léa she didn’t know how to name — a strange warmth rising slowly in her chest.

One particularly mild afternoon, Maya pulled out a second canvas. Without a word, she handed Léa a brush and a tube of vermilion red. Léa hesitated, her hands trembling, but let herself be led toward the blank surface. The touch of their fingers sent a shiver rippling up Léa’s arm. The color spread in creamy, uneven strokes. Maya’s breath brushed her temple. A tiny, persistent tremor bloomed there, like a confused promise. They laughed — paint on their noses, clumsy gestures — and Léa laughed too, her shoulders shaking like a child’s forgotten giggle sneaking back in.

A few days later, as they painted side by side, a sharp noise startled them: Maya’s easel had collapsed for no apparent reason, ripping through the freshly finished canvas. The next day, she found her brushes driven into the sand along the shore, standing upright like little colored crosses, each one carefully planted.

She laughed it off, mentioning the wind or some mischievous animal… but Léa felt a quiet unease begin to take root.

Maya started stumbling more often, tripping over roots that hadn’t been there the day before. “Strange things have been happening since I moved in,” she confessed one evening as they watched the sunset from the pier. “I get dizzy all of a sudden. I lose my balance for no reason. Yesterday… I felt like something pushed me toward the lake.”

Guilt twisted inside Léa like a blade. She glanced at Maya from the corner of her eye, noticing the dark shadows forming under her eyes, the new tension in her movements. The radiant light that had once filled her seemed to be dimming, and Léa had the terrible feeling that it was her fault — that it was tied to her.

For days now, Momma had seemed... different. Léa kept finding her in places she was sure she hadn’t left her. On the windowsill facing Maya’s cabin. By the front door, as if standing guard. Once, Léa even found her in the garden, leaning against the old oak like a cloth sentinel. Her button eyes, darker than usual, stared at the lake with mute gravity.

Each time, Léa tried to be reasonable. She must have moved Momma absentmindedly — during those stretches where her thoughts wandered to Maya. But a slow-growing fear was creeping in, fed by a voice that echoed louder and louder in her mind — her mother’s voice.

“Return to the righteous path, my darling… You’re lost in sin. Evil is seeping into you.”

One evening, Léa was carefully mending a tear that had appeared in Momma’s dress — a clean rip, right at the heart. A bit of stuffing poked out, as if the doll’s very heart were quietly unraveling. She spoke to Momma, as she always had, lips moving without sound.

*Why are you looking at me like that, Momma ? I’m not doing anything wrong… Maya is kind. She makes me happy. Mama would want me to be happy, wouldn’t she ?*

But Momma’s eyes seemed to fix her with silent reproach. For the first time in years, Léa no longer knew whether the doll was judging her or protecting her.

The next morning, Maya didn’t come to the lake. Worried, Léa waited until dusk before finally daring to cross the path to her home.

She found her in the garden, kneeling in the dark soil, fingers stained with dry paint and tangled plant matter, gathering the shredded remains of her canvases.

All of them lay torn, slashed by clean, methodical lines.

All but one. The painting of Léa by the lake, in profile, knees drawn up to her chest. A delicate, almost surgical incision had cut out the figure’s heart — like someone had tried to carve the budding love out of the painting.

Maya wept in silence, her tears tracing pale streaks down her dirt-smudged cheeks. When she saw Léa, she attempted a smile, but it quickly crumbled.

Léa knelt beside her and helped gather the torn canvas pieces. But her hands froze when she recognized the cuts. She had seen those precise, regular slashes before… in her mother’s sewing work. It was exactly the kind of incision Céleste used when undoing a seam — to remake it perfectly.

That night, Léa didn’t sleep. She kept her eyes fixed on Momma, watching for any movement. The doll sat upright on her dresser, hands resting on her knees, in exactly the position Léa had left her. But something about her posture suggested waiting. As if she too were on watch.

At dawn, as the first light filtered through the curtains, Léa noticed that Momma’s button eyes had changed. They were no longer smooth, glossy beads of black nacre. Something else had taken root in them — something indescribable. Eyes that no longer looked… but watched. Like two dark pearls brimming with undigested memories.

Léa rose and approached the doll. As she reached out, she noticed her fingers were trembling.

*What do you want, Momma ?* she mouthed silently. *Why are you doing this ?*

But the doll didn’t answer. She simply stared back with those strange eyes — eyes that seemed to know all her secrets, all her forbidden thoughts.

Through the window, Léa could see Maya’s yellow house, still asleep in the morning mist. A wave of tenderness surged in her, despite the fear. But already, Momma’s shadow was reflected in the glass.