The sound of a busy street—that's what hit them first. Not light. Not pain. Just noise. Clattering carts, distant shouting, something that smelled like smoke and something else that didn't belong. Their eyes opened to motion, to warmth, to people who didn't care they were standing in the middle of it all.
No one stared. No one screamed. No one called for help.
They were just there.
The sound of a busy street—that's what hit her first. Not a sudden rush, not some dramatic awakening, just… background noise. Life already in motion. Voices rising and falling. Hooves tapping against stone. Wheels turning, metal clanking, something frying in oil. Someone yelling. Someone laughing.
Her eyes opened.
And she was standing there.
Not in her room. Not on a bed. Just… upright. In the middle of a road filled with strangers.
No one looked her way.
She turned her head slowly. Buildings made of stone and sun-bleached wood. Stalls packed with fruit and cloth and dried meat. Dust clinging to boots and robes and the air itself.
None of it familiar.
None of it hers.
She took a step. Then another.
No gasps. No questions. No one shouting "who are you?" like they do in stories. People just passed her. Like she'd always been there. Like she didn't matter.
She reached up to touch her chest. Felt her heartbeat under her palm. It was fast but steady. Her breath came slow. Too slow for panic. Too slow for a dream.
The sky was a little too wide. The sun was a little too bright. She could smell sweat, wood smoke, dried blood, bread.
And still, no one stopped her.
She kept walking, eyes sweeping from stall to stall, corner to rooftop, trying to understand anything.
"Okay… so medieval but not? Market square? People with swords? That guy definitely had a sword."
Her fingers brushed against a hanging cloth—rough, handwoven, dyed deep red. She barely avoided knocking over a basket of onions. Someone behind her cursed in a language she didn't know. She didn't look back.
"This has to be a dream. I mean—none of this makes sense. I don't even remember falling asleep."
She stepped around a woman holding three chickens under one arm. The birds flapped and hissed. The woman didn't even blink at her.
"I should be freaking out more. Why am I not freaking out more? Why do my legs feel like they've been walking for hours?"
She glanced down again. Her feet were dusty. Her shoes weren't hers. Not even close.
"I didn't wear these. I don't own anything like these. What the hell."
She looked up at the rooftops. Smoke drifted from chimneys. Flags fluttered in warm wind. She could hear metal banging somewhere nearby. Dogs barking in a slow rhythm.
"I don't know where I am. I don't know the language. I don't know if I'm even—"
She cut herself off. Her mouth stayed open for a second. Then closed.
She didn't want to finish that thought.
Not yet
She wandered until her legs started to ache.
The noise didn't let up, but the crowd thinned near the edge of the market—fewer voices, fewer carts, more space between people. A table sat tucked between two stalls, half in the shade, crooked legs sunk into uneven stone.
It was empty.
She moved toward it without thinking, lowering herself slowly into the chair. It wobbled, groaned under her weight, but held. For the first time since she'd opened her eyes, she stopped moving.
She sat there, arms on the table, breathing. Watching. Listening.
Still no one approached her.
A few people glanced her way, then moved on. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, eyes tracing the edges of the stall roofs, the cracks in the stone.
The silence around her didn't feel peaceful.
It felt like something holding its breath.
And then—
Voices.
A group of girls approached the table from the far side, three of them. Their clothes were layered in deep oranges and dark greens, hair braided with fabric strips and beads. They looked like they belonged here—sharp eyes, easy smiles, confident steps.
One of them pointed at her and said something.
The words meant nothing. Fast, clipped. A question. Or maybe not.
Another crossed her arms and gestured at the seat.
The third girl raised an eyebrow and tilted her head, waiting.
Uma blinked at them, lips parting.
"I—I don't…" Nothing came out. Nothing they'd understand.
They didn't get it.
One of them repeated what she said, slower this time. Still didn't help.
She stood.
Backed away with her hands up, palms open.
The girls stepped in, sat down, didn't say another word to her.
She turned and walked off again.
Faster this time. Eyes on the ground. Jaw tight
Shadows stretched longer across the stones.
The warmth from earlier had faded, replaced by a slow, creeping chill that settled in her arms and legs. The sun dipped behind the roofs, and the sounds of the market thinned. Fewer carts. Fewer voices. Stalls being broken down piece by piece.
She wandered.
No plan. No direction.
Just trying to stay in motion long enough to not feel how heavy her chest was getting.
She turned a corner too fast.
And slammed into something solid.
She stumbled back a step, barely keeping her balance. Looked up.
It wasn't a wall. Not exactly.
It was a person. Broad-shouldered. Towering. Wrapped in worn leathers and soot-dark cloth. Their arms were bare, covered in scars and old burn marks, and their hands were stained black with ash and metal dust and the beard that you looks like a fire hazard.
The blacksmith looked down at her.
Their expression didn't change. Didn't harden. Just studied her, quiet and unreadable.
She froze.
One hand half-raised like she might apologize, but no words came. What would she even say?
The blacksmith glanced around. Looked her over—dust on her sleeves, the way she hovered on tired legs, the way her eyes didn't know where to land
She stood up straight and bowed.
Not deep. Just enough.
The only way she knew how to say sorry.
The blacksmith blinked once. Then said something—low, rough, in a language that meant nothing to her.
She didn't need to know the words.
He pointed behind him with a thick, calloused hand.
Not sharply. Not impatiently. Just pointed.
She hesitated,Then nodded,And followed
They walked in silence.
The road turned from stone to dirt, winding past low fences and crooked wooden posts. A few lanterns flickered behind windows, but no one else was out. The world felt muted here, like it was holding back its breath.
At the end of the path sat an old red barn. Slanted. Sagging at the edges. Paint peeling like it was too tired to keep pretending.
The blacksmith pushed the door open. It creaked like it hadn't been used in a while.
Inside was hay. Dust. The soft smell of livestock that hadn't been here in months.
A few crates stacked near the wall. A blanket folded on top. A rusted lantern resting beside it.
He pointed to it. Said something else she couldn't catch.
Then handed her a crust of bread—wrapped in cloth, still warm in the center.
She took it with both hands.
Held it like it might fall apart if she wasn't careful.
The blacksmith gave a short nod. Then turned, and walked away.
The barn door groaned shut behind him.
She stood there for a while.
Just her, the dust, and the blanket.
Then she sat down slowly. Pulled the blanket into her lap. Looked at the bread. Took a bite. Chewed without tasting.
Her hands were still trembling, just a little.
No one knew who she was.
No one even knew she was here.
And for now, that was okay.
It was enough.
It had to be.
The barn was dark. Quiet. The kind of silence that made her unsure if she'd really fallen asleep or just slipped into a daze.
Her body ached. Her head felt stuffed with cotton. But the blanket helped. The bread sat heavy in her stomach. She was warm enough.
Still.
Something pulled her awake.
She opened her eyes.
The silence had changed.
It was too still. Too… held.
Like the world outside had stopped breathing.
Then she heard it.
Scrape.
Drag.
A wet, uneven rhythm, like something was being pulled through gravel.
She sat up slowly.
Held her breath.
Scrape.
Skrrrk.
Another step. Closer this time.
It wasn't a cart. Not an animal.
Not anything that moved right.
She rose, feet silent in the hay. Her eyes scanned the gaps in the wood slats. Nothing at first.
Then—there A shape
Too tall,Too thin.
Standing just outside the barn doors
Its head twitched
Once then Twice
Then turned toward her, slow and stiff, like a puppet on bad strings
And it moved