That night, Miriam's apartment became unrecognizable. Shadows moved independently. Faint laughter of children curled from the corners.
The doll appeared in fragments: a hand here, a reflection there. Its voice layered dozens of tones, almost omnipresent:
"We learn from your prayers… your sins… your love…"
Miriam realized she was surrounded. Shadowy forms of children began appearing — kneeling silently, eyes hollow yet accusing.
Lucas tried to help, but when one shadow lunged, he recoiled. The doll's presence was no longer just physical — it had multiplied, feeding on her guilt and fear, becoming more than a doll.
Father Renner insisted on performing rites immediately, but Miriam hesitated. Exorcism could destroy the porcelain body, but the essence had already learned how to survive faith itself.
The shadows whispered her name. The air grew cold, thick with the scent of wet earth and candle smoke. She realized: she had awakened something much bigger than herself.