All day long people pass by. Some of them stop and press their faces to the glass like children, leaving smears from their fingers and noses. My compatriots cajole them into looking with their bright lights, their geegaws and noises. They come and go, and change design every year. My grandfather told of days of rifles and clattering iron trains. Now I’m surrounded by electronic dancing dust bunnies and packs of batteries and computer games. Some of them will be wrapped up inside their shiny packages to spend their lives on a collector’s shelf. Others will be broken in a matter of minutes by the careless hands of filthy children then forgotten. Oh, they may appreciate in monetary value until they’re rare and important, but my kind... My kind are treasures. The ones an adult will turn to in an hour of crises. Hearer of a hundred thousand whispered secrets. We are the plush priests of childhood confessionals. Always the reassuring worn loved friend. We may be washed, and damaged, and sacrifice eyes and ears and mouths for our patrons, but the return... There’s nothing I would trade to be "new and improved." No batteries for us. For decades and centuries we will remain unchanged, and eternal, and always, always, the most treasured stuffed companion.
The prompt was to write from the point of view of a teddy bear.