The sigh that escaped her lips was not one of relief, but of oppressive resignation. The stillness of the corridor, now illuminated by shafts of sunlight filtering through the cracks, seemed denser. She remained there, seated against the door, feeling the weight of the name Selena like a slab pressing against her chest. Minutes passed, marked only by the distant birdsong and the slow beating of her own heart, an alien rhythm that now dictated her existence.

  Finally, driven by an instinctive need for movement, to do something rather than succumb to static panic, she stood. Bracing herself against the cold stone walls, feeling every irregularity beneath her palms, she staggered back to the bathroom.

  What she found made her halt at the threshold, a fresh shiver running down her spine.

  The floor was clean. Immaculate. No trace remained of the dark, viscous pool of blood, nor of the vomit, nor of the shameful dampness of urine. Even the smell had changed; the stench of iron and rot had faded, replaced by the musty yet neutral scent of damp stone and old wood. It was as if an invisible hand had wiped a sponge across the evidence of horror.

  Her gaze fell on a heap of fabric in a corner: the stained dress. She picked it up cautiously. The cloth was dry, stiff in some folds, yet when she examined it closely under the light coming through the window, she could not find a single trace of the crimson red that had soaked it. There was only dirt and ordinary wear of use. The smell of blood, however, still lingered faintly in the air—subtle but undeniable—like an olfactory ghost refusing to disappear entirely.

  A brutal disconnect opened between what she remembered—the viscosity, warmth, the overwhelming metallic odor—and what her senses now revealed. Had it been a dream? A hallucination so vivid it had imprinted even upon her bodily memory? Yet the terror, the strangeness within her own skin, the awareness of being someone else… that had not dissipated. That felt more real than the floor beneath her feet.

  With an abrupt movement, almost one of revulsion, she slipped out of the clean brown dress and hurled it onto the pallet in the other room. Then, with a cold, practical determination born of desperation, she stripped off the coarse undergarments as well. They were dirty, soaked with sweat of fear and effort.

  She approached the large barrel of water, the same one whose reflection had first shown her the intruder’s face. The water stood still, clear and cold. She hesitated for a moment, the memory of that image still raw as a wound. Then, with a sigh closer to surrender, she immersed herself.

  The cold water enveloped her in a sudden shock that stole her breath but momentarily cleared the fog in her mind. Her long, tangled brown hair floated around her head like a crown of seaweed. She took a rough cloth hanging from a hook and began to scrub her skin, lathering herself with a hard, scentless bar of soap she found on a shelf. She washed every inch, scrubbing vigorously as if she could strip away not only the dirt, but the memory of blood, the alien sensation, the stolen identity.

  Her mind, however, did not rest. It ran in tight circles like a rodent in a wheel. Who? Why? How? The questions struck mercilessly, yet found no echo, no answers, not even the comfort of a memory to cling to. There was only emptiness—a deafening silence where her past should have been. It was as if everything—the terror, the discovery, even the now-vanished blood—had been a fever dream, but one from which she could not awaken because the dreamscape was now her only reality.

  Once clean, she dried herself with another rough towel that left her skin reddened. She dressed in the brown gown, slipped on the worn leather sandals she found beneath the bed, and packed the spare change of clothes into the sand-colored bag. Now only the hardest, most fundamental task remained: to claim this body. To make it obey.

  She practiced. Walking from one end of the room to the other, at first clinging to the walls, then releasing them for seconds that felt like eternity. Her new legs were treacherous, clumsy, with a different musculature and a balance that betrayed her. She fell twice more, striking her knees against the wooden floor with a dull, humiliating pain. After the second fall, in desperate pragmatism, she tied folded cloths around her knees—a flimsy armor against impact.

  She lost track of time. Only the cycle existed: step, balance, stumbling, fall, rise. She sweated, panted, cursed silently in a voice that still sounded strange to her ears. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, something began to shift. Her movements grew less spasmodic. The muscles, though weak, began responding with greater predictability. The tremor in her limbs, constant since she had awakened, started to fade, replaced by a deep but manageable exhaustion.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  After what she estimated might have been two hours, she could walk across the room with some steadiness, no longer needing support at every step. It was not the natural grace of one who has inhabited a body for a lifetime, but the improved awkwardness of someone who has half-tamed a wild animal. Yet it was progressing the first thread of control in a universe of chaos.

  She stopped before the door, the bag slung over her shoulder. She inhaled deeply, this time a fuller breath filling lungs that were beginning to feel less alien.

  Let’s get answers, she told herself, with a firmness she did not entirely feel. She smothered every other question, every other fear. Only that command remained.

  With an effort now more familiar, she lifted the heavy wooden bar and set it aside. She pushed the door open.

  The late-morning sun greeted her again, but this time it did not blind her. It was merely a passing discomfort. When she opened her eyes, the world unfolded before her with brutal clarity.

  She was not in the middle of absolute nothingness. Beyond a perimeter of green, sturdy trees rose a small settlement. They were not stone cottages like hers, but humble adobe structures with slanted thatched roofs and doorways covered only by faded cloth curtains. The sky was a clear, intense blue, and birdsong filled the air with a vitality that contrasted sharply with the dead silence of her shelter.

  She walked—still unsteady but determined—toward the first sign of activity: a gaunt, middle-aged woman dressed in garments patched in a dozen places, methodically sweeping a dirt yard with a broom of twigs. As Selena approached, the woman did not even look up.

  —Good morning, —Selena said. Her voice sounded less fractured now, though it still rang strange in her ears— Could you tell me if there is someone in charge of this place?

  The woman did not stop sweeping. She spoke in a monotonous tone, as if reciting a lesson. “Old Orla handles the dwellings in this area. If you want to see her, follow the stone path. You’ll find her there, in a room like yours.” Finally, she glanced up briefly, her dark, tired eyes resting on Selena without real interest. “Be careful with her nimora. Sometimes it lashes its tail.”

  Selena nodded with a slight inclination of her head—an instinctive formality—and followed the indicated direction. The path was little more than hard-packed dust, marked here and there with flat stones. Trees flanked the way, some lush, others nearly bare, as though the place were caught between seasons.

  Orla’s dwelling was indeed stone, but it had no door at all. The open threshold led to an interior lit by daylight. The floor was worn with planks, and in the center, instead of a bed, a long, heavy log served as both desk and table. Behind it, an elderly woman with her hair drawn into a bun as severe as it was gray bent over a piece of fabric, mending what looked like a woolen garment.

  The woman raised her gaze at Selena’s presence. Her face was etched with a web of deep wrinkles, like a map of a harsh life. Her dull gray eyes scrutinized her without warmth.

  —Selena, —she said, and the name sounded like confirmation, not greeting— Have you come to pay for another day, or did someone trouble you in your lodging? —She studied her for another second, her nimble fingers never pausing with the needle— You look like someone troubled you.

  Selena felt a knot of nerves tighten in her stomach. She clasped her hands together behind her back, seeking a point of stability— The latter, Madam Orla, —she managed, forcing the tremor from her voice— A man. Tall and blond. He came early this morning. Do you know his name? He did not mention it.

  Orla stopped sewing for a moment. She sighed; a sound laced with irritation and a trace of incredulity— It’s Bjorn. He came with you, don’t you remember? —She stared at her, and in her gray eyes flickered a spark of… concern? No, it was irritation— By the Flow, girl! Your head… —She cut herself off, studying Selena’s face. The expression of total incomprehension must have been obvious— I suppose you never knew his name, by the look you’re giving me— She ended the exchange abruptly, returning to her sewing— If you’re not paying for another day, you have until midday to clear out. Judging by the sun, that gives you two hours, child.

  At that moment, a movement caught Selena’s eye. From behind the log emerged a lizard. It was not large—perhaps the length of her forearm—but its scales were neither green nor brown; they shimmered faintly with an iridescent sheen, as though coated with a film of oil over water. The creature flicked its forked tongue, tasting the air.

  —Vito, come here, —Orla said without looking, her tone that of someone scolding a mischievous child— Don’t you go lashing that tail at the girl. —Then she looked up at Selena again, who was still standing there, her expression a mask of restrained desperation craving more any detail to cling to— I know nothing else about you, Selena. You gave me only your name and paid for three days. That’s all I know about you… and about that man.

  The words fell like stones. Three days paid. That’s all I know. There was no history. No origin. Only a name, a silent mercenary, and a deadline running out.

  —Thank you, Madam Orla, —Selena murmured, the sigh she released the sound of a hope extinguished.

  She took her leave with another small bow of her head and left the dwelling in silence. The dusty path seemed longer now, the blue sky more indifferent. The weight she carried was no longer only uncertainty or fear—it was the tangible burden of lack. She had no answers. No past. And in two hours, she would have no shelter either. No food. Not a single place in this unfamiliar world to belong.

  Life—this new life, stolen and terrifying—was pushing her brutally forward, forcing her to make decisions in absolute darkness, with a body that had only just begun to obey her and a name that was the sole beacon in a sea of nothing.