A Hand-Stitched Threat

Maya was waiting on the doorstep of her cabin, her face closed off and the crumpled note clenched in her hand. When she saw Léa approaching, her eyes hardened.

"Can you explain this ?" she asked, holding up the paper.

Léa shook her head vehemently, her eyes wide with incomprehension.

Maya snatched the notebook from Léa’s hands, flipped through it quickly, and, like fitting a puzzle piece, matched the torn-out note with the jagged edge in the spiral binding.

"I knew it... It matches," Maya said, her voice sharp. "Can you explain why you would do this ?"

Léa’s lips moved frantically, forming soundless words Maya couldn’t understand. But the way she shook her head and the agitation in her hands screamed her innocence.

Maya seemed to grasp it, and gave a bitter laugh.

"Then who ? You’re the only one who could’ve written this note. Don’t tell me some poltergeist is trying to hurt me now."

The joke died on her lips when she saw Léa’s expression — pale, frozen, eyes fixed on something behind Maya.

Maya turned slowly.

There, on her pillow, sat Léa’s little doll. Momma’s button eyes stared with a disturbing intensity, and in her cloth hand she held a broken rosary, its pearly beads glinting in the light.

"What the… ? Is this your doll, Léa ?" Maya murmured, stepping back instinctively.

Léa gently pushed past her and walked into the house. She approached the bed like an automaton, picked up the doll and examined the shattered rosary. She recognized the small white beads immediately — it was her mother’s, the one she used to count while praying each night for her daughter’s “purity.”

The message was clear.
Momma was reminding her where she came from, what she was meant to be. A pure girl. Pious. Untouched. Someone who had no right to love the way she did.

"Léa," Maya said in a hollow voice, "how did this happen ? Why is your doll here ?"

Léa shook her head, hugging Momma tightly to her chest. She could feel the doll’s anger pulsing beneath the fabric — a muffled rage that beat like a sick heart. The button eyes seemed to judge her, to accuse her of betrayal.

"I don’t understand anything anymore," Maya said, running her hands through her hair. "I love you, Léa, but ever since I met you, my life has turned into a nightmare. The falls, the constant accidents, that feeling of being watched... And now this."

She pointed at the doll in disgust.

Léa looked down at the doll she held. Her gaze was sharp, her lips moving soundlessly — preaching silent reproaches to the one in her arms.

Maya stared at her with a mix of pity and frustration.

"Come on, Léa! What kind of game is this ?"

Léa didn’t answer.
Instead, the doll suddenly slipped from her arms.

But instead of collapsing to the floor like any normal piece of cloth, she landed on her feet — standing, perfectly upright on her little legs.

Maya gasped and jumped back in fright.

Léa picked Momma back up and inspected her closely. The red thread that ran across her chest from her heart was stretched to the limit, holding on by just a few frayed strands — about to snap.

And then Léa understood.
The thread that kept her bound to her mother, that toxic love holding her back from living — was starting to break.
But before dying, it thrashed, desperate.
It wanted to destroy whatever threatened its hold.

Maya had sunk into a chair, face in her hands.

"This is too much… I think I need to leave," she said, her voice muffled. "I’m sorry, Léa, but I have to say goodbye."

Léa’s heart clenched.
She set Momma on the table and knelt in front of Maya, taking her hands in hers. With a trembling finger, she traced one word at a time into Maya’s palm, carefully, tenderly:

*Everything will be okay. Trust me.*

Maya looked up.
In her eyes, Léa saw all the love she held for her — mixed with a rising fear.

"How, Léa ? How are you going to fix this ?"

Léa stood and grabbed the notebook to write: *Tomorrow at 10. Meet me at the pier. It will be over. I promise you.*

Maya slowly nodded, too exhausted to argue.

"Tomorrow," she repeated. "But if anything else happens after that... I’m sorry, Léa."

Léa nodded.
She picked up Momma. The doll felt heavier than before — weighted by all the rage she carried inside her. Her button eyes were fixed on Maya with a malice that gave Léa goosebumps.

Back home, Léa placed the doll on her mother’s faded red velvet armchair and knelt before her. The room was bathed in a bluish half-light filtered through drawn curtains. Not a sound, except the ticking of the old wall clock. Léa clung to it like a litany, as if each tick was a second stolen from Momma’s grip — a silent victory. Shadows danced on the walls, and now and then she thought she saw the outline of her mother in the window’s reflections. But it was only a forgotten coat, or the exhaustion distorting her senses.

She watched the doll for a long time, searching for answers that wouldn’t come.

Momma remained upright — unyielding in her mission to “protect” her daughter from what she deemed an abomination. The maternal love she had once represented had turned into something cold and ruthless, a love that kills what it claims to protect.

That night, Léa ran her fingers over the doll’s frayed fabric, brushing the seam of her face like one would touch a fevered brow. Every stitch, every bit of embroidery carried the echo of a lullaby whispered at bedtime, a kiss on the temple, a "you are my treasure" said between heavy silences.

How could she deny that ?
How could she cast aside the only hand that had ever cradled her — even if, in the end, that hand had squeezed too tightly ?

But she was ready.
Ready to choose the real love of a living person over the toxic grip of a dead one.
Even if it meant cutting the final thread that tied her to her mother —

— The red thread that held her prisoner to the past.