Script
Why was my teddy bear’s eye wet at three in the morning?
I woke up to this soft scratching noise on the floor.
There it was—my old teddy, the one I lost years ago.
It was filthy. Torn. One arm missing.
And it was facing me. Not the wall. Me.
The bottom glass eye shimmered, like it was about to cry.
Each night, I swore it inched closer.
Like it knew I was watching.
Claws—yes, it had claws now—dragging across the wood, scraping.
I told myself it was just in my head. Just childhood guilt.
But tonight, it crawled onto my bed.
Right on my chest, pressing down, heavy for a toy.
That trembling eye stared right into me.
Then, in this voice—small, thin, nothing like I remembered—it whispered,
“You shouldn’t have left me.”
And I realized—I never told anyone what I did with the other toys.