“Here, drink this soup and you’ll get better tomorrow.”
Brielle’s mother lifts the spoon to her lips. Obediently, Brielle opens her mouth and closes her eyes, swallowing the thick broth. She never liked her mother’s soup — full of things that were “good for you.”
Unfortunately for Brielle, she’d been eating that soup for a week now, and her fever still hadn’t gone.
“Could I get a different soup tomorrow?” she asks quietly.
Her mother doesn’t answer. She hasn’t responded in five days.
The silence is beginning to drive Brielle mad.
Her mother stands and leaves the room. From her bed, Brielle hears the routine: dishes clanking, the faucet running, the sound of clean pillowcases being unfolded. Moments later, her mother returns, changes the pillowcase with practiced hands, and leaves again.
It’s the same pattern every day. Feed Brielle. Throw away the half-eaten soup. Wash the dishes. Change the pillowcase. Cry at night.
Brielle knows the rhythm so well she mouths each step as it happens. At just nine years old, she’s learned to curse the gods. She used to pray to them — last week, she asked for a new toy. The next morning, she woke up burning with fever.
Her father hasn’t come home. He doesn’t even know she’s sick.
Brielle glances around her small room. She’s counted fourteen cracks in the walls. Her eyes drift to the chair across from her bed, where her doll sits stiff and still.
Clarice.
Her favorite.
Brielle scowls and turns away.
Her father had promised to make her a one-of-a-kind doll. Unique. Special. Something she could flaunt to Estella, the spoiled neighbor girl with ten identical toys.
And he did. Or so he said.
She waited a whole week. Finally, he presented her with Clarice — sweet-faced, perfect, delicate in a way no other doll was. She’d fallen in love at once.
She ran outside to show Estella.
But Estella already had one. The same doll, sitting smug in a pink chair.
Humiliated, Brielle ran home and cried. Her mother tried to soothe her. “Your father didn’t have time to make one, darling. He bought it in the next town — it was expensive. We spent most of our money so you could have the doll you wanted.”
“I wanted one no one else had!”
She stormed out and ran to the church. She prayed for a new toy. One that was hers and hers alone.
Now, she glares at Clarice across the room. She knows it’s not the doll’s fault. But when she’s angry at the doll, it feels like she’s punishing her parents too — for lying.
The next morning, she drinks the soup again. It tastes like nothing now.
Has my tongue gone numb? she wonders.
But something is different. Her mother speaks.
“Keep eating the soup. The more you eat, the stronger you’ll get. Soon you’ll be running around the house again. Just keep being strong for me, okay?”
Her mother’s voice trembles. Tears shimmer in her eyes.
“I will get better,” Brielle says, nodding solemnly.
That night, she couldn't sleep. She stares at the ceiling and dreams with open eyes. She counts all the things she’ll do once she’s well:
“I’ll play with Estella. I’ll eat whatever I want. I’ll run down the street. I’ll visit grandma and grandpa. I’ll make a doll all by myself. I’ll teach mother how to make better soup...”
She glances at Clarice. “Should I make a new doll?”
She hesitates. Remembers what her mother said — they’d spent nearly all their money on Clarice. Her grandfather always said to be grateful, or you’d lose more than you knew.
Brielle’s eyes widen.
“Thank you, Mom and Dad,” she whispers. “For the doll.”
She breathes deeply. And then —
An awful smell.
Sour. Wrong. Like something rotting.
She covers her nose. In the distance, her mother is crying again.
Why does she cry if she believes I’ll get better? Brielle wonders.
She turns toward the doll. For the first time in six days, she tries to stand.
Her legs swing off the bed. Her feet touch the floor.
She stands.
No pain. No dizziness.
Just... normal.
Joy floods her. She dances, holding Clarice tightly.
“I’m better! I’m cured, Clarice! I can walk again!”
She twirls, giddy, then freezes.
She’ll surprise her mother in the morning.
When the door creaks open, she’s already up, pacing with anticipation.
“I can’t wait to see her face,” she tells Clarice.
She hears footsteps. Quickly, she hops into bed and pretends to sleep.
Her mother enters — and freezes.
Something’s changed. She looks around. Her gaze lingers. But she says nothing.
“Brielle, time for breakfast.”
Brielle sat up. Then she stood.
“Mother, look!” she cried, arms outstretched. “I can walk! I can dance!”
But her mother didn’t react. She simply stared at the bed.
Slowly, her hand moved — lifting the spoon, bringing it to invisible lips. Soup dripped from the edge and splashed onto the pillow.
Brielle’s smile faded.
“Mother?” she said, walking closer. “I’m right here.”
Her mother continued to feed the air.
Brielle reached out. “Mother, please. Look at me.”
Still nothing.
Then, her mother placed the spoon down, turned, and walked to the bed. She picked up Clarice and set her gently on the chair.
She collected the bowl, turned around, and walked away.
Brielle stood frozen. Her breath caught in her throat.
She followed the smell again — the one that had returned stronger than ever. It clung to her now. It was familiar. Terrible.
She knelt beside the bed.
And there, beneath it, hidden in a box, lay her body.
Pale. Sunken. Still.
Rotting.
She had died seven days ago.
“I… I’m dead?” she whispered, yet the words didn’t quite sting. They floated.
Her mother refused to accept it. She’d found Brielle cold and lifeless and kept feeding her soup. Tucked her into a box. Hid her under the bed. Pretended.
No one knew. Not even her father.
It wasn’t until Brielle’s grandparents visited that the truth surfaced. They smelled it. Sensed the wrongness.
They found her mother in the kitchen, calmly cutting carrots.
“Anyone gets better with my soup,” she said. “Right, mother? You taught me that.”
Her own mother cried. “She’s gone. You have to let her go.”
“My dear Brielle?”
Her mother smiled, then frowned. “No. She’ll get better. She’s strong.”
When her father finally came home, it was too late.
He clutched the doll in his hands. Clarice. The only thing he’d ever given her. The only thing she had.
“My daughter,” he wept. “My life.”
They buried her the next day.
The soup grew cold on the table.
Clarice sat in her chair.
And Brielle, finally, was still.
