It feels… off. Wrong. Like a puzzle piece in the wrong box.
Why doesn’t that seem right?
Why does my chest hurt?
Why is the air so cold in this room?
Why does the room feel too big… and too empty and not like home at all?
And then, like the slow rise of a nightmare slipping back into my mind, the memories start to surface?—
The sting at my neck…
A wave of nausea hits me so hard I swallow a cry. Because something happened. Something bad. And I still don’t know where I am.
Slowly, I force myself to sit. My head throbs and the roomtilts, but I grit my teeth and stay upright. I’m in some kind of storage space—cramped, cold, and smelling faintly of dust and aged wine. Wooden crates filled with bottles are stacked to the ceiling, their labels written in a language I can’t focus on.
There’s a tiny window high on the wall, but no light comes through. At first I think it’s night, but when I stand—nearly stumbling as the floor sways beneath me—I realize the glass has been painted over. Purposefully. To keep me from seeing anything.
My heartbeat stutters.
I reach up, scrape my thumbnail across the glass. The paint flakes away in chalky curls and faint, soft light spills through the scratch I’ve made. I widen the gap until I can see outside.
And what I see makes no sense.
A narrow cobblestone street curls along a cliffside, flanked by white stone buildings that look impossibly old, weathered by centuries of sun and sea. Their walls are chipped and uneven, shuttered windows opening to tiny iron balconies dripping with flowers. Farther off, the soft roar of waves echoes up from somewhere below.
The sky is a pale watercolor blue, tinged gold at the edges, hinting at a sunrise soon. The air—not the air in the room, but the air out there—looks clean and warm, the kind that smells like salt and sun-baked limestone.
This isn’t Kansas City. Or Chicago. This isn’t anywhere I’ve ever been.
I don’t even see any cars. Just a single scooter parked against a stone archway, and laundry swaying gently between the buildings on a line overhead.
My pulse spikes.
Where am I?
The view is like something out of a postcard. Picturesque,old, breathtaking—a seaside town carved into cliffs, perched above turquoise water. A place I never chose to be.
Panic squeezes tight around my ribs.
Who brought me here?
And why?
Movement above me makes my entire body go rigid. Someone is up there. Someone who might know what happened to me… or someone who did it.
I can either stand here and wait or face it head on.
Neither option feels smart, but doing nothing feels worse.
My legs shake as I find the wooden staircase. Each step creaks under my weight, loud enough to announce me to whoever is upstairs. Nausea swirls hard and fast, but I force myself to keep moving. I need answers. I need to get out of here. I need to?—
I reach the top and pause at the door. My heart stutters. If it’s locked, I’m trapped. My fingers twist the old knob.
It turns.
I almost cry in relief.
