I had always imagined what graduation would feel like. Years of studying, sleepless nights, deadlines, and early-morning lectures had left me wondering whether any of it would be worth the effort someday. Yet, sitting among hundreds of people celebrating their futures, I found myself thinking about how little I knew about mine.
Four years of university, and this was what it had come to: a stiff graduation gown, a diploma I wasn't entirely sure what to do with, and a future everyone seemed to expect me to have figured out.
My parents would probably ask about job applications on the drive home. My friends had already begun discussing salaries, apartments, and plans for the next five years.
I smiled when someone pointed a camera in my direction. It seemed easier than explaining that I had no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
Over time, I'd grown accustomed to the predictable monotony of university life. My weeks followed much the same pattern: waking early for lectures, spending my free periods researching and writing papers at the library, then returning home to finish homework or do some light reading if I had time.
Some might have called it boring. I wouldn't have argued with them. But there was something comforting about a life that rarely surprised me.
Every day followed a familiar schedule, simple enough to get through without much thought. I knew when I needed to wake up, where I needed to be, and what I needed to finish before the day was over.
There were no unexpected turns, no difficult decisions that couldn't be postponed until tomorrow. For years, I had moved from one obligation to the next, always knowing what was expected of me.
And perhaps that was the problem.
I had spent so long learning how to get through each day that I had never really stopped to consider what I wanted those days to add up to.
“Earth to Alex.”
A hand tapped my shoulder twice, pulling me out of my thoughts. I turned to find one of my university friends standing beside me, wearing the same graduation gown and the kind of grin that suggested he'd caught me doing something embarrassing.
“What?” I asked.
He tilted his head toward the edge of the crowd. “Your parents have been trying to get your attention for the past minute.”
I followed his gaze.
There they were, standing a short distance away from the other families, my mother waving enthusiastically while my father stood beside her with his hands clasped in front of him. Both looked barely able to contain their excitement, as though they'd been waiting years for this moment and were determined not to waste a second of it.
My mother spotted me looking and waved even harder.
I raised a hand in response.
“Looks like you're in trouble,” my friend said.
“For what?”
“Graduating, apparently. Congratulations. You've successfully unlocked the next stage of your life.”
“Does it come with instructions?”
“Knowing your luck? No.”
I laughed, shaking my head.
“Come on,” he said, giving my shoulder another pat. “Go see them before your mom comes over here and drags you away herself.”
“Yeah. I should probably do that.”
He flashed me one last grin before disappearing into the crowd.
I adjusted the collar of my graduation gown and made my way toward my parents.
My mother reached me first, catching both my hands in hers before I could say a word.
“Look at you!” she exclaimed, stepping back to take in the gown, the cap, and the diploma tucked beneath my arm. “I can't believe you're finally graduating.”
My father smiled and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Congratulations, son.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
For a moment, I simply stood there, looking at them. They were genuinely happy. After all the years they'd spent supporting me, worrying about my exams, and asking whether I was getting enough sleep, this was the moment they'd been waiting for.
I should have felt the same overwhelming happiness.
Instead, beneath my smile, a familiar question lingered.
What happens now?
“Alex, sweetheart, come stand over here. The lighting is much better!”
My mother tugged gently at my arm, leading me toward a patch of open space near the university's main building. Behind us, graduates posed with their families, holding diplomas aloft while cameras flashed in every direction. The entire campus seemed to have transformed into one enormous photo studio.
“Mom, we just took three pictures.”
“And none of them had your father looking at the camera.”
“That sounds like a personal problem,” Dad remarked.
My mother shot him a look. “I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
I couldn't help laughing as she handed her phone to a nearby student and pulled Dad closer to me. He put an arm around my shoulder, and she stood on my other side, smiling as though someone had just told her the best news of her life.
“Everyone ready?” the student asked.
“Wait!” Mom straightened the collar of my gown. “There. Perfect.”
The camera flashed.
“One more, please!” she said.
Dad sighed dramatically, but he was smiling when the next picture was taken.
For the next several minutes, we repeated the process from different angles. One picture with my parents, another with just my mother, then another with Dad. Mom even insisted on taking a few of me holding my diploma, despite my protests that the first dozen had already established that I had, in fact, graduated.
Still, I didn't complain too much.
They were happy. I could see it in the way my mother kept checking the pictures and in the quiet pride behind my father's usual attempts at humor. They'd supported me through four years of university, and today they finally had something tangible to celebrate.
Eventually, my mother seemed satisfied with the collection.
“So,” Dad said, slipping his hands into his pockets, “what are you thinking of doing now?”
There it was.
The question had been waiting in the background while the photographs and congratulations occupied our attention. Now that the excitement had settled, it had finally found its way into the conversation.
I adjusted the diploma beneath my arm.
“Well, I've been looking at a few opportunities,” I said. “I'll probably start applying for jobs soon. Maybe take a little time to figure out what kind of work I want to do.”
It wasn't entirely a lie. I'd browsed job listings a few times over the past month. I'd even bookmarked a couple that seemed interesting.
I just hadn't done much beyond that.
Dad nodded thoughtfully. “That's sensible. No need to rush into something you're going to regret later.”
“Exactly,” I replied, a little too quickly.
Mom lowered her phone. “Have you thought about what kind of job you'd like?”
“Not anything specific yet. Something related to my degree, probably. I'll see what's available.”
The answer came smoothly enough. I'd had plenty of practice giving reassuring responses whenever people asked about my future.
There was always a way to make uncertainty sound like a plan.
My mother seemed content with that. “Well, whatever you decide, don't forget to take care of yourself. You've been studying so hard these past few years.”
“I will, Mom.”
“And don't spend all your time sitting in front of a computer. You need to get out more.”
“Mom.”
“What? I'm just saying.”
Dad chuckled. “Let him breathe. He graduated five minutes ago.”
“I'm only trying to help.”
“I know,” I said, smiling. “And I appreciate it.”
I meant that, at least.
They weren't asking for much. They wanted me to find a decent job, build a comfortable life, and be happy. Nothing unreasonable. Nothing I could blame them for.
If anything, that made my uncertainty harder to explain.
How was I supposed to tell them I didn't know whether I wanted the future they were imagining for me? That after years of working toward this day, I hadn't developed even the faintest idea of what I wanted the next five years to look like?
It wasn't that I had no options.
It was that none of them felt like mine.
“So,” Dad said, clapping his hands together once, “how about we get something to eat? My treat.”
Mom brightened immediately. “Oh, yes! We should celebrate properly.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
And just like that, the conversation moved on.
I followed them toward the campus exit, listening as they discussed where we should eat. My mother was already scrolling through restaurant reviews while Dad made increasingly ridiculous suggestions just to annoy her.
I smiled and joined in whenever they looked my way.
For the moment, that was enough.
I could think about the future tomorrow.
My father had apparently chosen the restaurant, which meant my mother spent most of the drive explaining why it was a terrible choice.
“I'm just saying, we went there last year, and the food was mediocre at best.”
“That was two years ago.”
“Same difference.”
“It really isn't.”
I sat in the back seat, watching them argue in the rearview mirror. My father kept his eyes on the road, occasionally glancing at my mother with an expression of exaggerated patience. She, in turn, looked as though she were considering whether it was too late to make him turn the car around.
“So where would you rather go?” Dad asked.
“I already told you. The Italian place near the shopping district.”
“The one where a plate of pasta costs more than a week's worth of groceries?”
“It's a special occasion.”
“Exactly. That's why I suggested somewhere we can afford to celebrate another special occasion next year.”
I laughed.
Both of them turned toward me.
“What?” Mom asked.
“Nothing. I'm just wondering how you two have managed to stay married this long.”
“Love,” Dad answered immediately.
“Stubbornness,” Mom said at the same time.
Dad nodded thoughtfully. “That too.”
I laughed harder. For a while, the car filled with the kind of easy conversation I'd taken for granted while growing up.
There was something comforting about listening to them bicker over something so insignificant. No exams to worry about. No assignments waiting to be submitted. No deadlines creeping closer with every passing hour.
Just the hum of the engine, the evening sunlight filtering through the windows, and my parents arguing over where to have dinner.
I leaned my head against the window and watched the city pass by.
People moved along the sidewalks, shop signs lit up beneath the fading sunlight, and cars crowded the intersections. Somewhere along the way, the world had begun to look different to me. Or perhaps I'd simply never taken the time to look at it properly.
For the first time that day, I wasn't thinking about job applications or the next five years of my life.
I was just there.
And it felt nice.
“Alex?”
I lifted my head. “Hm?”
“You've gone quiet,” Mom said. “Tired?”
“A little.”
“It's been a long day,” Dad added. “You deserve a break. We can talk about jobs and everything else another time.”
I looked at him between the front seats.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “You've worked hard to get here. There's no need to have your entire life figured out by tonight.”
For a moment, I didn't know what to say.
It was strange. I'd spent the entire afternoon worrying about what came next, imagining questions I didn't have answers to and futures I couldn't picture. Yet the moment someone told me I didn't have to figure everything out right away, the weight of it seemed to loosen.
Maybe I'd been making too much of it.
Maybe life wasn't something I needed to solve before I could start living it.
I let out a quiet breath and settled back into my seat.
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe you're right.”
Mom smiled at me.
“Of course he is,” she said. “Don't tell him I said that.”
“I heard you.”
“Unfortunately.”
I grinned.
Outside, the traffic light ahead turned red. Dad eased off the accelerator, bringing the car to a gentle stop behind several others.
The conversation drifted toward dinner again. Mom was explaining what she wanted to order, while Dad insisted that if she was going to choose the restaurant, he should at least get to choose dessert.
I watched the light change.
Green.
The cars ahead began moving.
Dad released the brake and followed.
I don't remember what I was thinking about then. Something unimportant, probably. Maybe the restaurant. Maybe the photographs Mom had taken. Maybe nothing at all.
Then I heard a horn.
Loud. Prolonged. Wrong.
I turned toward the sound.
A truck was bearing down on us from the side, far too close and moving far too fast.
For a fraction of a second, my mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing.
Dad shouted something.
Mom gasped.
The world lurched as Dad jerked the steering wheel, but there was nowhere to go.
The impact came from my side.
A deafening crash swallowed everything. Metal screamed against metal, glass burst into the air, and my body was thrown violently against the seat belt. The world spun, lights and shadows smearing together until I couldn't tell which way was up.
Then came another impact.
And another.
Something struck my head.
The pain was immediate, blinding, and then—
Nothing.
***
I don't know how much time passed.
When awareness returned, it came in pieces.
A ringing sound filled my ears. My chest felt impossibly heavy, and every breath scraped through me as though my lungs had forgotten how to work. I tried to move my fingers.
They responded, barely.
I opened my eyes.
The world lay tilted at an impossible angle. Through a fractured window, I could see a strip of evening sky, pale orange against the darkening clouds. Tiny pieces of glass glittered around me like scattered stars.
For several seconds, I couldn't remember where I was.
Then I heard my mother.
Or thought I did.
A faint, broken sound came from somewhere beyond the ringing in my ears. I couldn't make out the words, but I recognized the voice.
“Mom?”
My own voice sounded distant and unfamiliar.
I tried to turn my head.
Pain flared through my neck, and the world blurred. I could see only fragments of the front seats, the twisted outline of the dashboard, and a motionless shape beyond the shattered glass.
“Dad?”
No answer came that I could understand.
Panic began to rise in my chest.
I tried to unfasten my seat belt, but my hand wouldn't cooperate. My fingers brushed against the buckle without finding the strength to press it. I pulled once, then again, each attempt weaker than the last.
I had to get out.
I had to see if they were all right.
I had to—
A shallow breath caught in my throat.
Something warm trickled down the side of my face. I could feel my heartbeat, slow and strangely distant, as though it belonged to someone in another room.
The ringing grew louder.
“Please…”
I didn't know who I was speaking to.
My mother. My father. God. Anyone who might be listening.
I tried to move again, but my body no longer seemed willing to obey me.
The evening sky beyond the broken window had begun to darken. Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard people shouting, followed by the faint wail of a siren.
Help was coming.
That was good.
Help was coming, and everything would be fine.
It had to be.
I only needed a little more time.
The thought felt strangely familiar.
Tomorrow.
I'd figure everything out tomorrow.
I'd find a job. I'd make my parents proud. I'd call my friends. I'd finally decide what I wanted to do with my life.
There were so many things I still wanted to do.
So many things I hadn't said.
I tried to call out again, but no sound came.
My vision narrowed until the fractured window and the fading sky were all I could see. The ringing softened, and the pain began to recede, leaving behind a coldness that spread slowly through my limbs.
I thought of my mother's laughter.
My father's smile in the rearview mirror.
The way the two of them had argued over dinner as though the world had never given them a reason to stop.
I wanted to see them again.
I wanted to tell them—
I didn't know what I wanted to tell them.
The darkness crept closer.
For one final, desperate moment, I tried to hold on to the sounds around me, searching for a familiar voice among the distant shouts.
I couldn't tell whether anyone was calling my name.
I couldn't tell whether my parents were still there.
I couldn't tell anything anymore.
And then, before I could find out, the world went quiet.
***
Cold seeped through my clothes and settled against my skin.
It seeped through my clothes and settled against my skin, an unpleasant chill that made me instinctively curl inward. Beneath me was something hard and uneven. My cheek rested against a rough surface, and a foul smell hung in the air.
For a while, I didn't move.
I couldn't remember where I was.
My thoughts came slowly, as though I were struggling to wake from a dream that hadn't quite ended. Somewhere in the distance, I heard voices. Footsteps echoed against stone, accompanied by the rumble of wooden wheels and the occasional shout.
A strange place for a hospital.
The thought made me open my eyes.
Above me stretched a narrow strip of sky, pale blue and framed by towering walls of stone and timber. Buildings leaned toward one another overhead, their upper floors almost touching across the narrow passage. A few crooked wooden beams protruded from the walls, and a length of faded cloth fluttered between two windows.
I blinked.
This wasn't a hospital.
I tried to sit up.
Pain flared through my body, and I sucked in a sharp breath. My head throbbed, my limbs felt strangely weak, and something about the movement seemed wrong. I placed a hand against the ground to steady myself.
Then I stopped.
My hand was small.
For several seconds, I stared at it without understanding what I was seeing. Thin fingers. A narrow palm. Dirt gathered beneath the nails. The sleeve covering my wrist was made of coarse, faded fabric, its edges frayed and stained.
That wasn't my hand.
I turned it over, examining it from both sides, as though the unfamiliar shape might somehow explain itself if I looked long enough.
It didn't.
A sudden, unpleasant thought crossed my mind.
I raised my other hand.
Small, too.
My breathing quickened.
“No…”
The voice that escaped my throat was thin and high-pitched.
I froze.
I knew that voice. Or rather, I knew it wasn't mine.
I tried again, forcing the words out more carefully.
“What’s going on?”
The sound was unmistakably that of a young girl.
My heart began to pound.
I looked down at myself. I wore a collection of worn garments, far too large in some places and tight in others. A faded tunic hung loosely over my narrow frame, its hem brushing against my knees. The trousers—or whatever passed for trousers here—were patched in several places, and my feet were bare against the cold stone.
I looked like a child who had spent a long time outdoors without anyone to care for her.
But that wasn't possible.
The last thing I remembered was the crash.
The truck.
My father turning the steering wheel.
My mother—
I pressed both hands against my head.
The memories came rushing back, each one sharper than the last. The violent impact. The shattering glass. The crushing pressure against my chest. The desperate attempt to reach my parents.
Then darkness.
I remembered dying.
At least, I thought I did.
I waited for panic to take hold, for my mind to reject what I was seeing as impossible. Instead, I found myself sitting motionless in the alley, trying to arrange my thoughts into something that made sense.
Perhaps I was dreaming.
Perhaps the accident had left me unconscious, and this was some elaborate hallucination.
Perhaps—
I stopped myself.
There was no point inventing explanations just because the truth frightened me.
First, I needed to understand where I was.
Then I could worry about everything else.
I pushed myself upright, using the wall for support. My legs trembled beneath me, and I had to wait a moment before trusting them with my weight. Even standing felt unfamiliar. My balance was different, my stride shorter. When I took a cautious step forward, my body moved with an awkwardness that made my stomach tighten.
Whatever had happened to me, it wasn't something I could afford to ignore.
I made my way toward the end of the alley.
The passage opened onto a street bustling with activity.
And I forgot, for a moment, to be afraid.
The road was paved with uneven cobblestones, worn smooth in places by countless footsteps and wagon wheels. Buildings lined both sides, their lower walls constructed from stone and their upper stories supported by dark wooden beams. Signs bearing unfamiliar symbols hung above shop entrances, swaying gently whenever the wind passed through the street.
A horse pulled a heavily laden cart past a fruit seller. Nearby, a man in a leather apron unloaded wooden crates while another shouted prices to a gathering of customers. Women in long skirts and simple head coverings moved between stalls, carrying baskets of vegetables and folded cloth.
There were no cars.
No traffic lights.
No electric signs or glowing screens.
I searched for something familiar—a road marking, a modern building, even a discarded plastic wrapper—but found none.
It was as though I had stepped into a history book.
Except history books didn't smell like this.
The air smelled of damp stone, animal dung, cooking oil, woodsmoke, and freshly baked bread. Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith hammered metal against an anvil, the rhythmic clang cutting through the conversations around me.
I stood at the edge of the street, watching the crowd pass.
Nobody seemed particularly interested in me.
A few people glanced at me, their eyes lingering on my ragged clothes before moving on. One woman frowned as she stepped around me. A merchant called out to a customer without giving me so much as a second look.
That, at least, was reassuring.
Or perhaps it wasn't.
I was an eight-year-old girl standing barefoot in an unfamiliar city, wearing clothes that looked as though they'd been discarded by someone else.
In hindsight, it was remarkable that nobody had stopped to ask questions.
I drew a slow breath and stepped into the crowd.
My first priority was information.
I needed to know the name of this place, what kind of world I was in, and whether there was any possibility of returning to my old life.
The last question was the one I tried hardest not to think about.
I walked past a row of stalls selling pottery, dried herbs, and unfamiliar tools. As I walked, I listened to conversations, hoping to catch a place name or a word that might tell me something about my surroundings.
The language sounded familiar enough to follow in broad strokes, although some of the expressions were strange. I could understand people when they spoke to one another, which was a small mercy. I had no idea whether that was because this world shared a language with my own or because whatever had brought me here had somehow preserved my ability to understand it.
I decided not to dwell on that question.
There were already too many questions.
I passed a fountain in a small square and caught sight of my reflection in the water.
I stopped.
The face staring back at me belonged to a little girl.
She had a narrow chin, a small nose, and large eyes that looked even bigger beneath a fringe of tangled hair. Strands of dark, unkempt hair framed her cheeks, and a smear of dirt crossed one side of her forehead. Her skin was pale beneath the grime, and her clothes hung loosely from shoulders too small to fill them.
She looked tired.
Hungry.
Frightened.
I stared at her for a long time.
Then I raised a hand.
The girl in the water did the same.
I touched my cheek. She touched hers.
There was no trick of the light, no lingering blur to blame on exhaustion.
That was my face now.
I had somehow become a child.
A girl.
I took a step back from the fountain, my stomach twisting as I tried to reconcile what I was seeing with everything I remembered about myself.
I was Alex.
I had been a university graduate. I had parents who had been waiting to take me to dinner. I had friends, a life, and a future I hadn't known what to do with.
Now I was standing in the middle of a strange city, trapped in a body that couldn't have been more than eight years old.
And I had no idea whose body it was.
The thought unsettled me more than I expected. If this body had belonged to someone else, then what had happened to her? Was she dead? Had I replaced her somehow? Or was there an explanation I couldn't begin to imagine?
I had no answers.
Only a growing awareness that I couldn't remain standing beside a fountain forever.
The sun had climbed higher while I wandered, and the initial chill had given way to an uncomfortable warmth. My legs ached. My stomach had begun to gnaw at itself, and my mouth felt dry.
I needed food.
More importantly, I needed somewhere safe.
I considered approaching someone and asking for help, but the idea made me hesitate. I had no name to give them, no family to point toward, and no explanation for my appearance. If someone asked where I lived, what would I say?
That I had died in another world and awakened inside a little girl's body?
They would either think I was insane or decide I was a lost child who needed to be taken somewhere.
I wasn't sure which possibility frightened me more.
Still, I couldn't survive by avoiding everyone.
I started walking again, keeping to the busier streets. If nothing else, the crowds made me feel less exposed. I could observe people without attracting too much attention, and perhaps I might find somewhere to sit while I worked out what to do next.
I'd spent years treating the future like a distant destination I could ignore until I felt ready for it.
Now, the future had arrived without asking permission.
And I didn't even know where to begin.
I had been walking for some time when a voice called out behind me.
“Hey, little one. Are you lost?”
I turned.
A man stood a short distance away, near the entrance to a narrow street between two shops. He looked to be somewhere in his thirties, perhaps a little older. His clothes were worn but considerably cleaner than mine, and a short, unkempt beard covered his jaw. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his appearance.
That, I supposed, was what made him easy to overlook.
He gave me a sympathetic smile.
“You've been wandering around on your own for a while,” he continued. “Where are your parents?”
My first instinct was to ignore him and keep walking.
But I hesitated.
The question was simple enough, and his tone carried the sort of concern I might have expected from an adult who had noticed a child alone in the street. More importantly, I had spent the better part of the day trying to figure out where I was without making any real progress.
Perhaps talking to someone wouldn't hurt.
“I...” I began, then stopped.
What was I supposed to say?
My parents were dead—or at least, they might be. I had no idea whether this world had anything resembling my old home, much less whether I could ever return to it.
The man seemed to interpret my silence as distress.
“Ah, don't be frightened.” He lowered himself slightly, bringing his face closer to my level. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
It was an oddly specific thing to say.
I studied him for a moment.
“I'm not frightened,” I replied.
The words came out in a small, childish voice that still felt wrong coming from my mouth.
The man chuckled.
“Of course you aren't.”
Something about the way he said it irritated me. He spoke as though my opinion were an amusing little detail, something to indulge rather than take seriously.
Still, I had more pressing concerns.
“Do you know where I am?” I asked.
“You're in the lower district of the city.” He gestured vaguely toward the street behind me. “Not the best place for a little girl to be wandering alone.”
The lower district.
At least that was something.
“What city?”
His eyebrows rose slightly.
“You don't know?”
I shook my head.
For the first time, his expression changed. It was only a fleeting shift, a narrowing of the eyes before his smile returned, but I noticed it.
“Well, now,” he murmured. “That's a problem, isn't it?”
He glanced around before looking back at me.
“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”
I didn't answer.
The question struck a little too close to the problem I had been trying to avoid.
“I thought so,” he said, apparently deciding my silence was answer enough. “Listen, I know a place where children without families can get a meal and a bed. People there look after little ones who have nowhere else to go.”
A meal and a bed.
My stomach chose that moment to remind me how hungry I was.
I hated that the offer appealed to me.
For hours, I'd been trying to convince myself I could handle the situation by staying calm and thinking things through. Yet all my careful reasoning hadn't changed the most immediate facts: I was exhausted, I was hungry, and I had nowhere to sleep.
A place to stay would solve at least one of those problems.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Not far.” He pointed toward the narrower street beside him. “Just down there. It's quieter than this part of the market.”
I looked in the direction he indicated.
Tall buildings shadowed the street, and the afternoon light barely reached its uneven cobblestones. A few people moved through it in the distance, but it was considerably less crowded than the main road.
I looked back at him.
“What's the name of the place?”
He paused.
Only for a moment, but long enough for me to notice.
“It's a small charitable house,” he answered. “You wouldn't know the name.”
“Then how will I find it again?”
His smile remained in place.
“You're full of questions, aren't you?”
I didn't like that answer.
It wasn't proof of anything. Perhaps he was simply impatient, or perhaps places that helped abandoned children operated differently here. I had no idea how this city's charitable institutions worked, assuming they even existed.
But I had learned something during my old life.
When a situation didn't make sense, inventing reassuring explanations for it rarely made it any safer.
“I think I'll stay here,” I said.
The man's smile faded just a little.
“Don't be silly. You can't stay out on the street all day.”
“I'll find someone else to ask.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he straightened.
“You're making this more difficult than it needs to be, girl.”
The change in his voice was subtle, but the friendliness had begun to slip away.
I took a small step backward.
“I said I'll find someone else.”
He moved toward me.
It happened quickly enough that I didn't have time to react properly. His hand closed around my wrist, his fingers digging into the thin skin above it.
“Listen to me,” he said through his teeth. “You don't want to cause a scene.”
I stared at him.
The street noise seemed to recede into the background as my mind caught up with what was happening.
He wasn't offering help.
He was trying to take me somewhere.
“Let go,” I said.
He tightened his grip.
“Stop struggling. I'm trying to do you a favor.”
I pulled backward.
His arm barely moved.
Pain shot through my wrist, and a wave of helplessness washed over me. I'd known, in the abstract, that this body was small and weak. Knowing it was one thing; experiencing it was another.
In my previous life, I had been able to reach things on high shelves without thinking about it. I could run for a bus, carry a bag of groceries, or push open a heavy door without having to calculate whether my body could manage the effort.
Now, I couldn't even free my hand from a man's grip.
I forced myself to stop pulling.
Struggling blindly would only exhaust me.
I needed an opening.
The man began drawing me toward the narrow street.
“Come on,” he muttered. “We'll talk somewhere quieter.”
I planted my feet against the cobblestones, but it did little to slow him. My bare soles slipped against the uneven ground.
People passed us.
A woman carrying a basket glanced in our direction before continuing on. Two men argued over the price of something at a nearby stall. A merchant called out an offer to a passing customer.
The world carried on around us, indifferent to the fact that a man was dragging me away.
I opened my mouth to shout.
The man noticed.
His free hand shot toward my face, not quite reaching it but close enough to make me flinch.
“Don't,” he warned.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I had to do something.
Then a sharp crash rang out behind him.
A wooden cart had clipped the edge of a stall, sending small wooden containers tumbling into the street. The merchant shouted in outrage, while the cart driver cursed and hurried to gather the scattered goods.
Several people turned to look.
So did the man.
His attention shifted for only a second.
But a second was all I had.
I twisted my wrist, turning my hand toward the gap between his thumb and fingers, and yanked backward with every bit of strength my small body could muster.
Pain flared through my arm.
For an instant, I thought I had failed.
Then my hand slipped free.
I stumbled backward, nearly losing my footing.
The man turned toward me, surprise flashing across his face.
“Why, you little—”
I ran.
I didn't stop to think where I was going. I darted between two pedestrians, ducked around a basket of vegetables, and hurried across the street as someone shouted at me to watch where I was going.
Behind me, I heard the man's footsteps.
“Get back here!”
I ran faster.
My lungs burned almost immediately. My legs were short, my steps clumsy, and the unfamiliar clothes tangled around my knees. Every instinct urged me to look back, but I knew that would only slow me down.
I turned down a side street, squeezed between two buildings, and emerged into another crowded lane.
For several terrifying seconds, I couldn't tell whether he was still following me.
I kept running until my legs began to tremble.
Only when I reached a small square filled with people did I finally slow down. I slipped behind a group gathered around a street performer and forced myself to keep walking, trying to appear as though I belonged there.
My wrist throbbed.
I clutched it against my chest and swallowed several desperate breaths.
Nobody approached me.
Nobody seemed to have noticed anything unusual.
I wanted to sit down. I wanted to cry. I wanted, more than anything, to wake up in my own bed and discover that the crash, the strange city, and this tiny unfamiliar body had all been a nightmare.
But the ache in my wrist was real.
So was the dirt beneath my feet.
And the man had been real, too.
I glanced over my shoulder.
I couldn't see him.
That didn't mean he was gone.
I moved away from the square, putting as much distance as I could between myself and the street where I'd met him. This time, I paid attention to the people around me. I watched their hands, their expressions, and the direction in which they moved. I avoided anyone who seemed too interested in me.
It was an exhausting way to walk through a city.
It was also the only way I knew to keep myself safe.
By the time I stopped, the sun had begun its slow descent toward the rooftops.
My legs ached. My throat was dry, and the hunger in my stomach had become impossible to ignore.
I had spent the entire day trying to understand this world.
So far, I had learned almost nothing about it.
I had learned, however, that being small and alone made me an easy target.
And if I wanted to survive here, I would have to be considerably more careful about whom I trusted.
For now, I needed food.
And somewhere to sleep.
The smell reached me before I saw the shop.
Warm bread.
It drifted through the evening air, mingling with the scents of woodsmoke and freshly cooked food. I followed it almost without thinking, my tired feet carrying me down a narrower street lined with small shops and houses.
By then, the sun had begun to sink behind the rooftops. The streets were taking on a different character. Merchants were packing away their wares, shopkeepers were closing their shutters, and people hurried home before the last of the daylight disappeared.
I had no home to return to.
The thought settled heavily in my chest.
I stopped outside a small bakery.
Its wooden sign hung above the entrance, displaying a painted loaf of bread surrounded by curling golden wheat. The paint had faded with age, and the sign creaked softly whenever the wind passed through the street.
A warm glow spilled from the open doorway.
Inside, I could make out wooden shelves, a broad counter, and several baskets filled with freshly baked loaves. An oven glowed at the back of the shop, casting a reddish light over the walls.
For a moment, I simply stood there.
My stomach gave an embarrassing growl.
I pressed a hand against it.
“Well, that certainly answers that,” I muttered.
Even to my own ears, my voice sounded strange. I still hadn't grown accustomed to hearing a child's voice come out of my mouth.
I glanced at the bakery's display.
The bread looked wonderful.
More wonderful than anything had a right to look after the day I'd had.
I didn't have any money, of course. Even if I had, I had no idea what the currency of this city was called or how much a loaf of bread should cost.
Stealing food would only create another problem.
So I did the only thing I could think of.
I walked away.
I had barely taken three steps when a voice called from the doorway.
“Little one? Wait a moment.”
My entire body stiffened.
For an instant, I was back in the crowded street, feeling the man's fingers close around my wrist.
I turned cautiously.
An elderly woman stood outside the bakery, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. Her hair was mostly silver, gathered into a loose bun at the back of her head, and the lines around her eyes deepened as she studied me.
She was short and plump, with a face that might have seemed stern if not for the concern in her eyes.
“Have you eaten today, dear?”
I hesitated.
That was an unexpectedly direct question.
“I'm fine,” I replied.
My stomach chose that exact moment to betray me with another growl.
The old woman glanced down at me, then back at my face.
One of her eyebrows rose.
I wanted the cobblestones to open up and swallow me.
“Is that so?” she asked.
I said nothing.
She gave a quiet, almost amused sigh before turning toward the bakery.
“Wait here a moment.”
My first thought was that she was going to fetch someone.
Perhaps she'd noticed my appearance and decided I was a troublesome street child. Perhaps she'd send for a guard or ask me to leave.
I considered running.
After what had happened earlier, the thought came naturally. Trusting strangers suddenly seemed like a luxury I couldn't afford.
But the woman returned before I could decide what to do.
She held a small loaf of bread in both hands. Its crust was golden brown, and a thin ribbon of steam escaped from a crack along the top.
The smell was almost unbearable.
“Here,” she said, holding it out to me. “It's fresh from the oven. A little too small to sell at full price, perhaps, but perfectly good to eat.”
I stared at the loaf.
Then at her.
“How much?”
The question seemed to surprise her.
“How much?”
“For the bread.”
She looked at me for a moment, and her expression softened.
“Oh, child.” She shook her head. “Nothing. I'm giving it to you.”
I didn't reach for it.
There had to be a catch.
People didn't usually give things away for nothing. Not in the world I remembered, and certainly not after the afternoon I'd just endured.
Perhaps she expected me to do something for her. Perhaps she'd ask me to carry something, clean the shop, or follow her somewhere.
Or perhaps I had become so accustomed to anticipating the worst that even a simple act of kindness now seemed suspicious.
The woman noticed my hesitation.
“You don't have to take it if you don't want it,” she said gently. “But I won't stand here all evening trying to convince you to eat.”
She held out the loaf a little farther.
I looked at it again.
My stomach hurt.
I was exhausted, thirsty, and beginning to feel the chill of the approaching night. Whatever doubts I had, I couldn't pretend I didn't need the food.
Slowly, I reached out and accepted it.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“There we are.”
The bread was warm against my palms.
I tore off a small piece and put it in my mouth.
The crust was slightly crisp, while the inside was soft and fragrant. It tasted faintly of butter and something sweet I couldn't quite identify.
It was, without exaggeration, one of the best things I'd ever eaten.
I tried to eat slowly, reminding myself that I wasn't actually starving to death. But after the first bite, stopping became difficult. I broke off another piece, then another, swallowing each mouthful as though someone might appear at any moment to take the loaf away.
The old woman watched me quietly.
She didn't laugh at me or tell me to slow down.
Instead, she folded her arms over her apron and leaned against the doorframe.
“When was the last time you ate properly, dear?”
I paused with a piece of bread halfway to my mouth.
“I don't remember.”
It was the truth, in a way.
I couldn't remember the last time this body had eaten. I didn't know whether the girl had been hungry for hours or days, whether she'd spent the previous night in an alley, or whether anyone had ever looked after her.
I knew nothing about the life I had inherited.
The woman's expression grew more serious.
“And where are your parents?”
I lowered my eyes toward the bread.
There were several answers I could have given her, but none of them felt right.
“I don't know,” I said at last.
She remained silent for a moment.
Then, rather than pressing me for an explanation, she asked, “Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?”
I looked away.
That was answer enough.
The woman sighed, her gaze moving over my worn clothes and bare feet. I felt suddenly self-conscious beneath her scrutiny, although there was nothing I could do about my appearance.
“Goodness,” she muttered. “You're far too young to be wandering the streets alone.”
I didn't disagree.
She glanced back into the shop, where the warm light of the oven flickered across the walls.
“I have a little room upstairs,” she said. “It's nothing grand, mind you. The bed is narrow, and the blankets have seen better days. But it's warm and dry.”
I looked at her carefully.
She continued before I could answer.
“You can stay there tonight. Tomorrow, we can think about what to do next.”
My fingers tightened around the remaining bread.
A room.
A bed.
Somewhere safe to sleep.
The offer was so simple that, for a moment, I didn't know how to respond.
After everything that had happened, I had grown accustomed to the idea that every stranger might be a threat. The man I'd met earlier had smiled at me, spoken gently, and offered help before revealing what he really wanted.
What reason did I have to believe this woman was any different?
I studied her face, searching for the signs I'd missed before.
She didn't reach for me. She didn't insist that I follow her. She simply waited, leaving the choice in my hands.
And perhaps that was the difference.
The man had tried to make the decision for me.
This woman was allowing me to make it myself.
“Why?” I asked quietly.
Her brow furrowed.
“Why what, dear?”
“Why are you helping me?”
She seemed to consider the question seriously.
Then she gave a small shrug.
“Because you're hungry. Because you're alone. And because I wouldn't sleep particularly well knowing I'd sent a child like you back out into the cold when I had a perfectly good room upstairs.”
She said it as though the answer were obvious.
Perhaps, to her, it was.
I lowered my gaze.
For some reason, that simple answer made my throat tighten.
In my old life, I'd spent years worrying about the future, wondering what I was supposed to do with myself and whether I was making the right choices. I had always assumed that the important moments would be the ones I could prepare for—the milestones I'd worked toward, the decisions that would determine what came next.
I had never imagined that my life would end in a car crash.
Nor had I imagined that, after waking in a stranger's body in an unfamiliar world, my first real kindness would come from an elderly baker offering me a loaf of bread.
I swallowed.
“All right,” I said.
The woman smiled.
“Good. Come along, then. It's getting late.”
She stepped aside to let me enter the shop.
I hesitated only briefly before following her inside.
Warmth enveloped me almost immediately. The air was rich with the smell of yeast, flour, and fresh bread. Behind the counter, several loaves rested beneath a clean cloth, while the oven crackled softly in the back of the room.
The door closed behind me, shutting out the evening chill.
For the first time since waking in that alley, I allowed myself to take a full breath.
I still didn't know where I was.
I didn't know who this little girl had been, why I had awakened in her body, or whether my parents were still alive in the world I'd left behind.
I didn't even know what tomorrow would bring.
But tonight, at least, I wouldn't have to face the darkness alone.