I woke with a sharp breath caught in my throat.
For several seconds, I couldn't move. My heart hammered against my ribs, and the thin nightdress clung uncomfortably to my back. The room was dim, illuminated only by the pale light filtering through the narrow window. Somewhere beyond the walls, the estate remained quiet.
I stared at the ceiling, struggling to understand why I felt so frightened.
Whatever I had dreamed about was already slipping away. I could remember the fear, the dreadful certainty that something terrible had happened, but the details refused to settle into anything I could recognize. Every time I tried to reach for them, they seemed to dissolve, leaving behind nothing but the unpleasant sensation that I had narrowly escaped something.
I swallowed and forced myself to breathe more slowly.
In.
Out.
Again.
The room gradually came into focus. The wooden bedframe, the folded blanket at the foot of the mattress, the small table beside the bed. My clothes had been placed neatly over the back of a chair the previous evening. Beyond the window lay the unfamiliar grounds of the estate, enclosed by walls of dark stone.
I was not in the carriage.
I was not in that terrible room beneath the auction house.
I was here.
The realization should have brought relief. Instead, it merely reminded me that I had exchanged one uncertain situation for another.
At least no one was coming to drag me away.
That was something.
I pushed myself upright and wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My fingers trembled slightly, so I pressed them against the blanket until they steadied.
It was ridiculous.
I knew that nightmares were nothing more than the mind's way of processing memories, fears, and emotions. I had understood that long before my death. There was no reason to treat one as a warning, and certainly no reason to let it interfere with the day ahead.
Besides, whatever I had dreamed about, it was over now.
I had more immediate problems to worry about.
A soft knock came from the door.
Before I could answer, the handle turned, and Mara stepped inside.
"Good morning. I hope you slept well."
She had already dressed for work. Her brown hair was tied back neatly, keeping it away from her face, and her dark dress and apron looked much the same as they had the previous evening. She carried a folded set of clothes over one arm.
Then she looked at me properly.
Her expression changed only slightly, but I noticed the pause.
"Are you feeling all right?"
"Yes."
The answer came too quickly.
Mara's eyes moved from my face to the dampness along my hairline. She glanced at the blanket, then back at me. I could practically feel her assessing the situation.
"I see," she said.
She didn't ask what had happened. She didn't come closer to examine me or try to draw an explanation out of me. Instead, she placed the clothes on the chair and walked toward the window to pull the curtains aside.
"You've still got a little time before the first bell. We should get you dressed before breakfast, though. Mistress Halen expects everyone to be present when the bell rings."
"All right."
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
My feet barely reached the floor.
For one absurd moment, I found myself resenting the bed for being too tall. Then I remembered that the bed wasn't unusually tall. I was simply small.
Another little reminder that the body I inhabited had not been designed with my convenience in mind.
Mara turned back toward me.
"Did you have a bad dream?"
I froze.
Her voice had been casual, almost conversational. She might have asked whether I had heard the rain during the night. There was no accusation in her tone, nor any particular expectation that I would answer honestly.
Still, I hesitated.
"Just a dream," I said at last.
Mara nodded.
"Those can be unpleasant."
That was all.
She didn't ask what I had seen or tell me there was nothing to be afraid of. She merely handed me the folded clothes and explained which pieces I should put on first.
I appreciated that more than I wanted to admit.
I wouldn't have known how to respond if she had tried to comfort me. I didn't want to be questioned about my fears, and I certainly didn't want to explain why a child might wake from a nightmare with the expression of someone who had learned to expect the worst.
It was easier to pretend that nothing had happened.
Mara helped me with the unfamiliar fastenings and showed me how to arrange the dress so that it wouldn't twist around my legs. I could have managed some of it alone, but my fingers were clumsy, and the clothes were not made for someone who had never worn them before.
She didn't make me feel foolish for needing help.
Once I was dressed, she knelt briefly to straighten the hem.
"There. Much better."
I looked down at myself.
The dress was plain and practical, with no decorations beyond a narrow seam around the collar. It was clean, at least, and fitted well enough that I wouldn't trip over it.
I supposed that was an improvement over the ragged clothes I'd been wearing when I arrived in this world.
Mara stood and brushed a stray strand of brown hair from her own forehead before gathering the clothes I'd slept in.
"Come along. I'll show you where we eat."
I followed her toward the door.
As we stepped into the corridor, I noticed her glance toward me once more. It was brief enough that she might have been checking whether I was keeping up.
But I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was remembering something.
The sweat.
My breathing.
The way I'd sat there trying to compose myself instead of reaching for someone.
She said nothing about it, and neither did I.
Yet as we walked down the corridor, I couldn't shake the impression that Mara had noticed more than she intended to let on.
The estate seemed an entirely different place in the morning.
The previous evening, the dark stone walls and long corridors had appeared imposing, their shadows deepening as the light faded. Now, with daylight filtering through the windows, I could see the careful workmanship in the walls, the polished wooden railings, and the occasional painting or decorative carving.
The place was not merely a large house. It was a functioning establishment, with people moving through its corridors and carrying out tasks that had begun long before I woke.
A servant passed us carrying a basket of folded linens. Another emerged from a side room with a stack of wooden trays. They exchanged brief greetings with Mara, who answered without breaking her stride.
I watched them closely.
Everyone seemed to know where they were going. Nobody stood around wondering what they ought to do next. Even their conversations were short, often interrupted by the next task waiting for them.
I would have to learn how to move through this environment without constantly drawing attention to myself.
It was a familiar problem in an unfamiliar setting. In my previous life, I had spent years learning how to navigate institutions, classrooms, workplaces, and the complicated expectations people imposed upon one another. The principles weren't entirely different here.
The consequences of getting them wrong, however, might be.
Mara led me down a flight of stairs and along a corridor that smelled faintly of bread and woodsmoke. We passed through a doorway into a large room furnished with several long tables and benches.
The servants' breakfast room.
It was already busy.
People sat in small groups, eating from bowls and breaking pieces from loaves of bread. A few stood near the far wall, pouring drinks from a large pot. Conversation filled the room, though it quieted in places as people noticed Mara entering with a child they had never seen before.
I felt the attention settle on me.
Not hostile, exactly.
Curious.
Which was almost worse.
Mara appeared not to mind.
"Come on," she said, guiding me toward an empty place at one of the tables. "We'll sit here."
I climbed onto the bench beside her. My feet dangled above the floor.
I tried not to think about it.
A broad-shouldered man sitting across from us glanced at me while chewing a piece of bread. He had a weathered face and thick hands, the sort that suggested years of physical work.
"Who's the little one?"
"This is the girl Mistress Halen brought into the household yesterday," Mara replied. "She's staying here now."
The man raised his eyebrows.
"Another pair of hands, then?"
"Eventually, if she learns properly."
He gave a short laugh.
"Well, good luck to you, little one. This place has enough work for three households."
His tone wasn't unkind. He seemed more amused than anything else.
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded and returned to his breakfast.
Mara leaned slightly toward me.
"That's Tomas. He looks after the stables and helps with the carts. If you need to know anything about horses, he's the person to ask."
"I see."
"He can be a little loud, but he doesn't mean any harm."
"I heard that," Tomas called from across the table.
Mara smiled into her cup.
I looked around while she continued introducing me to the people nearby.
There was a middle-aged woman named Elsbeth who worked in the kitchens, a thin young man called Perrin who carried messages and supplies around the estate, and a quiet older servant named Joren who helped maintain the grounds. Another girl, perhaps a few years older than Mara, worked alongside the kitchen staff and was introduced as Lysa.
The introductions were brief. Most of them offered a greeting or a nod before returning to their food.
Lysa, however, leaned forward with open curiosity.
"How old are you?"
"Eight," I answered.
The number came easily enough. I had already settled on an approximate age for the sake of convenience, even if I had no way of knowing the precise number.
"Eight?" She looked surprised. "You're very small."
I resisted the urge to point out that this observation was neither useful nor particularly polite.
"She's still growing," Mara replied before I could answer. "And she's only just arrived. Give her time."
Lysa shrugged.
"I was only asking."
"I know."
The exchange ended there.
I lowered my eyes to the bowl of porridge someone had placed in front of me. It was warm, thick, and faintly sweet. A piece of bread sat beside it, along with a small cup of milk.
The food smelled good.
I ate slowly at first, more out of habit than suspicion. The baker's betrayal had left me with a lingering reluctance to accept anything offered too freely, but I couldn't afford to refuse every meal on the possibility that someone might have tampered with it.
Besides, this was a room full of servants eating the same food. Unless the entire household was conspiring to poison me, there was little reason to worry.
That thought was reassuring only because it was practical.
As breakfast continued, I listened to the conversations around me.
Most concerned ordinary matters. A delivery that had arrived late. A missing tool. Someone who had failed to put away a set of kitchen utensils. A complaint about the weather and the condition of one of the paths leading toward the gardens.
It was strangely comforting.
After everything that had happened, I had expected the estate to feel like another prison, a place where everyone watched one another for signs of weakness. Perhaps that would come later. For now, it seemed that the servants had their own lives, their own concerns, and very little time to spend worrying about a new child.
I could work with that.
I would learn their routines, discover which people were approachable, and avoid drawing unnecessary attention to myself.
The strategy was hardly revolutionary, but it had kept me alive so far.
The first bell rang while I was finishing my bread.
Its deep note rolled through the building, vibrating faintly through the wooden tables and benches.
Conversation slowed.
People began gathering their dishes and rising from their seats. Some exchanged final words before heading toward the kitchens or the corridors. Others were already discussing the tasks that awaited them.
Mara stood and held out her hand.
"Come on. It's time."
I took it before remembering that I didn't particularly like being guided around like a small child.
But she had already begun leading me toward the door, and I decided that protesting would accomplish nothing.
There would be time enough to establish my independence once I understood how things worked here.
For now, I had a great deal to learn.
Mistress Halen was waiting in a small room adjoining the main corridor.
She stood beside a table covered with papers and a ledger. Her posture was straight, her clothing immaculate, and her expression as composed as it had been the previous evening.
She looked from Mara to me.
"Good. You're both here."
Mara inclined her head.
"You asked to see us?"
"I did."
Mistress Halen closed the ledger and rested her hands on its cover.
"Mara, I've decided that you'll take charge of the girl's training from today onward. You'll remain responsible for her instruction and see that she learns the routines of the household."
Mara blinked once.
"All of it?"
"Not every task in the estate, obviously. She is eight, not a full-grown servant. But she must learn how to conduct herself, understand the household rules, and carry out simple duties correctly. You'll begin with the basics and report any persistent difficulties to me."
"I understand."
Mistress Halen turned toward me.
"You will listen to Mara and follow her instructions. She knows this household and its expectations. If you don't understand something, ask her rather than guessing. If she tells you that an area is restricted, you will stay away from it. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mistress Halen."
"Good."
She returned her attention to Mara.
"You have your own duties, so I expect you to use your time sensibly. The girl is to learn, not to become an excuse for neglecting your work. Arrange the lessons around your responsibilities."
"Of course."
"Then that's settled."
Mistress Halen reopened her ledger, making it clear that the conversation was over.
Mara and I left the room.
For several steps, she remained silent.
Then she exhaled through her nose.
"Well. It looks as though you'll be following me around quite a bit."
"Does that bother you?"
She looked down at me.
"Not particularly. It does mean I'll have to be more organized."
I wasn't sure whether that was supposed to reassure me.
"Am I going to be doing the same work as everyone else?"
"Not immediately. You'll start with simple things. Learning where everything belongs, how to carry things properly, how to keep your work tidy. You'll also need to remember the rules about the family and the restricted parts of the estate."
"I remember."
"Good. We'll see how much of it you've actually remembered by the end of the day."
There was a faint hint of amusement in her voice.
I couldn't tell whether she was teasing me or testing my reaction.
Either way, I followed her.
My first lesson involved folding linen.
It was not, as it turned out, as simple as it sounded.
Mara took me to a room where clean sheets and towels were stacked on shelves. She demonstrated how to fold a sheet into neat sections, keeping the edges aligned and the corners tucked in so that the finished bundle could be stored without taking up unnecessary space.
I watched carefully.
Then I tried it myself.
My first attempt looked acceptable from a distance. Up close, however, one corner protruded, and the edges didn't line up properly.
Mara unfolded it.
"Again."
I tried a second time.
Worse.
A third attempt produced something that might generously have been described as a folded piece of cloth.
Mara pressed her lips together.
I narrowed my eyes at the sheet.
"It can't be that difficult."
"Then why haven't you managed it?"
Because I had spent most of my previous life using my hands for keyboards, pens, and the occasional screwdriver, not folding linens according to the standards of an aristocratic household.
Because my fingers were small, my coordination was unfamiliar, and I was attempting to perform a task that required a degree of precision I hadn't developed.
Because the sheet appeared to possess a personal grudge against me.
I kept these observations to myself.
"Perhaps I'm doing it too quickly."
"Then slow down."
I looked at her.
She looked back.
There was no hidden trick, no secret lesson about perseverance. She simply expected me to try again.
So I did.
This time, I paid attention to the edges rather than trying to force the entire sheet into shape at once. I aligned the corners, smoothed the fabric, and folded it in smaller sections.
The result was still imperfect, but considerably better.
Mara examined it.
"That's acceptable."
"Acceptable?"
"For your first morning."
I decided that I could live with that.
We spent the next hour working through several small tasks. Mara showed me where clean linens were stored, how used ones were separated, and which shelves belonged to which rooms. She explained that servants were expected to return items to their proper places rather than leaving them wherever they happened to be convenient.
The lesson seemed obvious until I began trying to remember the locations of everything.
There were more shelves than I cared to count.
Mara was patient, but she didn't repeat herself unnecessarily. When I forgot where something belonged, she expected me to think back to her instructions rather than immediately asking for help.
I found myself appreciating that.
It would have been easy for her to treat me as incapable simply because I was a child. Instead, she seemed willing to let me make mistakes, provided I learned from them.
That was a far more useful arrangement.
After the linen room, she showed me the pantry.
It was larger than I expected, with shelves holding sacks of flour, jars of preserved vegetables, dried herbs, grains, and various other ingredients. The air smelled of spices and stored food.
Mara explained the basic organization and pointed out which supplies were frequently used and which were kept for particular meals.
I listened, memorizing what I could.
Then she handed me a small list.
"Tell me where you'd find these."
I looked at the first item.
"Salt."
"Yes."
"The shelf beside the flour?"
"Correct."
I continued through the list. I made two mistakes, but Mara corrected them without comment. By the end, I had located everything she asked for.
It was a small accomplishment.
Still, it felt better than the sheet.
As we left the pantry, I caught Mara watching me.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You were looking at me."
"Am I not allowed to look at the person I'm teaching?"
"That depends on what you're looking for."
She laughed softly.
"You're a strange child."
I felt my shoulders stiffen.
For a moment, I wondered whether I had said too much or reacted in a way that might reveal something I couldn't explain.
Then Mara shook her head.
"Don't worry. I mean that you pay attention to everything. Most children your age would have forgotten half of what I told them by now."
"I don't want to make mistakes."
"Everyone makes mistakes."
"Some mistakes are more expensive than others."
The words escaped before I could reconsider them.
Mara's expression changed.
It wasn't a dramatic change. She didn't suddenly look frightened or suspicious. But the amusement faded from her face, replaced by something quieter.
"That's true," she said after a moment.
Then she turned toward the next corridor.
"Come along. There's still more to learn."
I followed her, silently cursing myself for speaking without thinking.
I would need to be more careful.
An adult's reasoning might help me survive, but it could also make me stand out. A child who spoke like someone twice her age was bound to attract questions sooner or later.
And questions were dangerous when I had no honest answers to give.
By midday, I was beginning to understand why the estate required so many servants.
The building was enormous, and every room seemed to generate its own collection of tasks. There were floors to sweep, dishes to wash, food to prepare, clothes to mend, supplies to count, and countless small responsibilities that had to be completed before anyone could consider the day finished.
The household operated through routine. Each person had a role, and the entire system depended on everyone carrying out their share of the work.
I could see the logic in it.
I could also see how easily someone without a clear place in that system could become a burden.
Mara took me to the kitchen, where Elsbeth gave me a small task sorting clean utensils. She was less patient than Mara, though not unkind. When I placed two items in the wrong container, she corrected me briskly and returned to her work.
I adjusted the arrangement and carried on.
Later, I helped Perrin gather a few items that needed to be moved to another storage room. He spoke little, preferring to work in silence, and seemed satisfied as long as I didn't get in his way.
These small encounters taught me more about the servants than the introductions at breakfast had.
They weren't a unified group with a single attitude toward newcomers. They were individuals with their own temperaments and concerns. Some were friendly. Some were reserved. Others simply wanted to finish their work without having to supervise a child who had arrived unexpectedly.
I couldn't blame them.
I didn't know what I would have thought if someone had suddenly placed a strange child under my care and expected me to teach her the workings of an unfamiliar household.
The difference was that I wasn't merely learning how to work here.
I was learning how to survive here.
The thought followed me through the afternoon, lingering even as Mara corrected the way I carried a basket or reminded me to close a cupboard after taking something from it.
I tried not to dwell on it.
There was little point in repeatedly reminding myself of circumstances I couldn't change.
Instead, I focused on the immediate task.
One step at a time.
It was the only way I knew how to proceed.
When the seventh bell finally rang, I felt as though I had been awake for days.
My arms ached from carrying things, my feet hurt, and I was beginning to understand just how much physical effort even the simplest tasks required from this small body.
Mara noticed me rubbing one of my wrists.
"Tired?"
"A little."
"That's normal. You've been working all day."
"I thought I was only supposed to learn."
"You can learn while working."
"That seems suspiciously convenient for the people assigning the work."
She stared at me.
I stared back.
Then, to my surprise, she laughed.
"You're not wrong."
For the first time that day, I smiled without having to remind myself to do so.
It was a small thing, barely more than a moment of shared amusement, but it made the estate feel a little less unfamiliar.
Mara gathered the last of the supplies we'd been sorting.
"Come on. We'll put these away, and then I'm finished for the day."
"And what happens afterward?"
"I thought I'd take you to the library."
I looked at her.
"The library?"
"That's what I promised, isn't it? You still need a name."
The words brought me back to the previous evening.
I had nearly forgotten.
Not because the matter was unimportant, but because the day's tasks had left little room for anything beyond the next instruction, the next shelf, the next mistake I needed to correct.
Now that Mara had mentioned it, the question seemed to settle over me with unexpected weight.
A name.
Something so ordinary that most people never had to think about it.
Something I had lost before I even understood how much it mattered.
"All right," I said.
Mara gave me an encouraging smile.
"Good. Let's finish here first."
The library occupied a quieter part of the estate.
We passed through two corridors and climbed a narrow staircase before reaching a pair of tall wooden doors. Mara pushed one open and stepped aside to let me enter.
I stopped just inside.
The room was larger than I had imagined.
Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with books of different sizes and colors. Several tall windows allowed the afternoon light to spill across the floor, illuminating dust motes drifting lazily through the air. A broad table stood near the center of the room, with several chairs arranged around it.
The room smelled of old paper, polished wood, and the faint dryness of leather bindings.
I had always liked libraries.
In my previous life, they had been places where I could escape the noise of the world and lose myself in ideas that had nothing to do with whatever problems I was currently facing.
This library was different, of course. The books were unfamiliar, their titles written in the script of a world I had never known. Some had illustrations on their covers. Others were bound in plain leather, their spines marked with faded lettering.
Still, the atmosphere was familiar enough to stir something inside me.
For a moment, I almost forgot where I was.
Then Mara spoke.
"Most of these books belong to the household. Some are histories, some are records, and others are meant for teaching children. The family has a few private collections, but those aren't kept here."
She walked toward a set of shelves near the back.
"We'll start with the books about names. There should be one around here somewhere."
I followed her, looking at the titles as we passed.
"Do you come here often?"
"Not as often as I'd like. I have work to do, after all."
"Do you enjoy reading?"
"When I have the time."
She glanced at me.
"Why? Do you?"
I hesitated.
The question was innocent, but it touched on something I had been trying to keep hidden.
"I think so."
Mara seemed to accept the answer.
"Then perhaps you'll find something else to read once we've dealt with your name."
She located a thin volume and carried it to the table. Its cover was worn at the corners, and the pages had yellowed with age.
"Here we are."
She opened it carefully.
The book contained lists of names arranged by region and family tradition. Some were accompanied by short explanations of their origins, while others had notes about historical figures who had carried them.
Mara turned a few pages.
"Let's see. We should find something suitable."
She began suggesting names, offering brief explanations of where they came from and how they were commonly used. Some sounded familiar in a way I couldn't quite explain. Others were entirely foreign to me.
I listened as she explained the differences between names traditionally given to children of noble families and those more common among ordinary people.
"Some names have changed over time," she said, pointing to a note in the margin. "A name that was common two hundred years ago might sound old-fashioned now. Others remain popular because they're associated with important families or historical figures."
"So people choose names based on their history?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes they choose them because they like how they sound. Sometimes a family has a tradition of using the same names across generations."
She shrugged.
"There isn't one reason."
I considered the names she had shown me.
None felt right.
They were perfectly reasonable names. Some were pleasant to hear, and a few had meanings I found appealing. But each time I imagined answering to one, I felt a strange sense of distance.
They belonged to this world.
I didn't.
Not yet.
Mara noticed my hesitation.
"None that you like?"
"I'm not sure."
"That's all right. We don't have to decide immediately."
"Here's one that means something close to steadfast or enduring. That might suit you."
"Why?"
"Because you seem determined to learn everything at once."
I looked at her.
"That's not the same thing."
"No, I suppose not."
She smiled and continued browsing.
I tried to concentrate on the book, but my thoughts had begun to wander. Each name seemed to raise the same question in a slightly different form.
What was I supposed to call myself?
The name I had carried through my first life was still there, unchanged in my memories. It belonged to the person who had graduated from university, who had worried about the future, who had sat with his parents and friends believing there would be countless ordinary days ahead.
That person had died.
I had died.
Yet I could remember everything.
I could remember the sound of my mother's voice. I could remember the conversations we'd had over dinner, the small arguments that had seemed important at the time, the way my father sometimes pretended not to be amused when I said something foolish.
I could remember the day of my graduation.
The car.
The impact.
The darkness.
And then I had opened my eyes in a world that had no place for the person I used to be.
I looked down at my hands.
Small fingers. Smooth skin. A body that belonged to a little girl.
Whatever name I chose, the people here would see me as this child. They would teach me, order me around, and judge me according to the expectations they had for someone my age.
I couldn't tell them the truth.
I couldn't explain that I had once been an adult, that I remembered another life, or that the name they gave me would be attached to memories they could never understand.
Even if I tried, who would believe me?
The sensible answer was obvious.
I needed a name that belonged in this world. Something ordinary enough not to attract attention. Something I could answer to without hesitation.
It was a practical problem, and practical problems were easier to solve than the rest.
So why couldn't I choose?
Mara closed the book and reached for another.
"Perhaps we should try a different collection. There might be something in the older records."
I nodded, though I had barely heard her.
My gaze remained fixed on the open page.
A memory had surfaced, quiet and unexpected, like a voice coming from a room I thought I had left behind.
It was a memory from my first life.
Not from the day I died, nor from graduation, nor from any of the moments I had been replaying in my mind since waking in this world.
It was much older.
I was sitting at the kitchen table with my parents. I couldn't have been more than ten or eleven. My mother was preparing something for dinner, while my father sat nearby reading a newspaper.
I remembered asking them whether they had ever considered giving me a different name.
It had been a casual question, one of those things children asked without any particular reason. Perhaps I'd encountered someone with an unusual name at school. Perhaps I had simply become curious.
My father had laughed and said that they had considered several possibilities before I was born.
My mother had smiled.
"If you'd been a girl," she'd told me, "we would have called you Ellie."
I remembered the surprise I'd felt.
"Ellie?"
"Yes."
"Why that name?"
She had paused, as though she wanted to find the right words.
"Because it means something like a bright, shining one," she had explained. "And because, from the moment you were born, you were our light."
My father had looked up from his newspaper.
"Your mother spent months deciding on that name," he'd said, grinning. "She'd probably have found another reason to change her mind by the time you arrived."
My mother had given him an indignant look.
"I would not."
"You absolutely would."
They had started arguing playfully about it, and I'd laughed.
That was all.
A simple conversation at a kitchen table.
Nothing remarkable. Nothing I had ever imagined I would remember with such clarity.
Yet now, sitting in a library in a world that shouldn't have existed, it felt as though I had been handed something fragile that had somehow survived the destruction of everything else.
Ellie.
I repeated the name silently.
It was strange how a few letters could contain so much.
I remembered my mother's smile. The warmth in her voice. The casual certainty with which she'd told me that I had been their light.
I had never thought much about it before.
I had been their son. Their child. The person they had raised, argued with, worried over, and loved.
They had given me a name, and I had carried it without ever questioning how much it meant.
Now I was here, in another world, wearing another face.
And I could no longer return to them.
My throat tightened.
I looked away from the book, blinking several times.
It wasn't fair.
The thought came suddenly, almost childish in its simplicity.
It wasn't fair that I had to make these decisions. It wasn't fair that I had died without knowing what had happened to my parents. It wasn't fair that I had been given another life without being asked whether I wanted one.
I wanted to go home.
I wanted to hear my mother's voice again, to sit at that kitchen table and listen to my parents argue over something insignificant. I wanted to complain about university, worry about my future, and be annoyed when they asked questions I didn't know how to answer.
I wanted the ordinary life I had taken for granted.
But wanting it wouldn't bring it back.
I had spent so much time since waking in this world searching for safety, looking for exits, and trying to understand the rules of a life I hadn't chosen.
I had treated every day as a problem to solve.
Survive the street.
Escape the man who had tried to abduct me.
Find shelter.
Avoid the baker's trap.
Escape the auction house.
Endure the journey.
Learn the estate's rules.
One problem after another.
And through all of it, I had clung to the thought that I was still the same person who had died on graduation day.
I was still Alex.
I still remembered my life. I still thought as I had before. I still carried the same memories, the same regrets, the same longing for the people I'd lost.
But I was no longer living that life.
The distinction was painful, yet impossible to ignore.
I couldn't simply pretend that nothing had changed. I couldn't wake up tomorrow and expect my parents to be waiting for me. I couldn't return to university or resume the future I had been planning.
That life was gone.
The memories remained, but the world they belonged to was beyond my reach.
For the first time, I allowed myself to consider something I had been avoiding since the beginning.
Perhaps surviving wasn't just a matter of keeping my body alive.
Perhaps, at some point, I would have to learn how to live again.
Not because I wanted to abandon my former life, but because refusing to acknowledge the new one wouldn't restore what I'd lost.
I could remember my parents without pretending they were still within reach.
I could grieve the future I had lost without spending every waking moment searching for a way to return to it.
And perhaps I could choose a name without surrendering the one I had carried before.
Ellie.
My mother's choice.
A name she had imagined for a daughter she never had.
A name she had connected to the light her child had brought into her life.
The thought hurt more than I expected.
It also brought a strange, quiet warmth with it.
I couldn't take my mother's hand. I couldn't tell her what had happened to me. I couldn't even know whether she had survived the accident.
But I could remember her.
I could remember the way she had smiled when she spoke that name. I could remember what she had meant when she called me her light.
And I could carry that memory with me.
Choosing Ellie wouldn't mean that Alex had ceased to exist. The person who had lived that first life would remain a part of me, no matter what name I answered to here.
I didn't need to erase him to become someone who could survive this world.
I only needed to accept that my life had changed.
That I was here now.
And that, somehow, I would have to keep going.
Mara's hand over my shoulder brought me back to the library.
I realized I had been staring at the page for so long that she had stopped turning it.
She was watching me with a quiet, questioning expression.
"Are you all right?"
I lowered my eyes.
"Yes. I was just thinking."
"About the names?"
I nodded.
Mara glanced at the book in front of me.
"Have you found one you like?"
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
I thought of the name I had carried for my entire first life. I thought of my parents, the kitchen table, and the ordinary conversation that had somehow become one of the most precious memories I possessed.
Then I looked at Mara.
"I think so."
She waited.
I took a breath.
"Ellie."
The name sounded unfamiliar when I said it aloud.
Not wrong, exactly.
Just unfamiliar.
Mara repeated it softly, testing how it sounded.
"Ellie."
She smiled.
"I like it."
I looked down at my hands.
"Do you think it suits me?"
"I think that's for you to decide." She closed the book and placed it on the table. "But if you like it, then that's what matters."
She didn't ask why I'd chosen it. She didn't suggest another name or tell me that I should be certain before making such a decision.
She simply accepted my answer.
"Then Ellie it is," she said.
Something inside me tightened at the sound of it.
Ellie.
A name from another life, spoken in this one.
I wasn't sure I was ready to answer to it. I wasn't sure I would ever stop thinking of myself as Alex, or whether I even wanted to.
But I had chosen it.
Not because someone had assigned it to me. Not because I needed to satisfy a rule or make myself useful to the household.
I had chosen it because it meant something to me.
Because it reminded me of the people I had loved.
Because I wasn't ready to let go of them, even if I had to let go of the life I had once known.
Mara gathered the books and returned them to the shelves.
"Come along, Ellie. It's getting late, and you'll need to be in your room before the eighth bell."
I followed her toward the door.
Hearing the name again still felt strange. Each time it passed her lips, I became a little more aware of the distance between the person I remembered being and the child walking beside her.
I didn't know how long it would take for the name to feel natural.
Perhaps it never would.
Perhaps there would always be a part of me that answered to Alex in the silence of my own thoughts.
That was all right.
I didn't have to settle every question tonight.
For now, I could keep the name my mother had chosen, and the memory of why she had chosen it.
I could remember that I had once been someone's light.
And perhaps, in a world that had given me so many reasons to fear the future, that memory was enough to carry me through another day.
The eighth bell rang as we reached the corridor leading to my room.
Mara reminded me to settle in for the night, then left me with a quiet goodnight.
I closed the door behind me and stood in the dim room for a moment, listening to the fading sounds of the estate.
Tomorrow, I would continue learning how to survive here.
I would fold more linens, memorize more rules, and try to understand the people whose world I had entered without warning.
I would be careful. I would watch. I would learn.
I would remain Alex in the quiet places of my mind, where my memories of the past still belonged to me.
But when someone called for Ellie, I would try to answer.
Not because I had forgotten who I was.
But because I was still here.