I was built by a man who wanted to get his daughter a gift, it was very sweet actually. Her name was Annie, I think. Every morning she’d take out her dolls and pretend that I was the household for a wealthy family in Chicago. There was the Mr., the Mrs., and the three children.

I liked the idea of being the living space for such an important group of individuals.

Annie would move onto different storylines over the years, and I was invested into each and every one of them. Eventually, I started to notice that she started to greet me less and less. I still had hope though.

It must’ve been because of more homework in school, she must’ve lost track of time and merely didn’t have the time to play today.

I was stupid then.

I should’ve known that once kids grew up, they thought they were too old for pretend.

They moved me to the attic.

Then they sold me.

Now I’m merely a collectable on display at an antique shop, just there for people to gawk at. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll be bought and be put on on another shelf, on another stranger’s house.