Samara’s eyelids fluttered open, her first conscious sensation being a shiver coursing through her body as she registered the wet stickiness on her face. Her surroundings blurred as she struggled to push herself upright, but her legs betrayed her, sending her crashing back to the unforgiving ground.
“Where am I?” she muttered, her voice trembling with confusion. Her gaze darted around the unfamiliar surroundings, seeking anything that might hint at recognition.
Gradually, images began to crystallize. She found herself nestled within the heart of a sun-kissed meadow, its perimeter guarded by towering trees, their long branches extending like protective arms around her.
“How on earth did I end up outside?” she pondered aloud, her hand instinctively reaching for her throbbing temple. The moment her palm made contact, that unsettling wetness returned, and she withdrew it, finding her white coat sleeve marred by a bright bloodstain. Panic surged through her as she summoned all her strength and attempted to stand once more, new aches and pains registering—a persistent throbbing in her back causing her to wince.
“Maybe I’m concussed,” she mused aloud, squeezing her eyes shut to recall her recent past but couldn't remember anything. Finally rising, she became acutely aware of the wild grass that reached up to her calves, and several bushes dotted the clearing, some even taller than her. But the colossal trees indeed dominated the scene, their branches growing upwards as if reaching for the heavens.
As her gaze followed them upward, a thought struck her. I can use the maps app on my phone to determine my location. With newfound determination, she shoved her hands into her coat pockets, her fingers fumbling desperately. She retrieved a pen and some crumpled sheets of paper, which, though baffling, offered no aid in her current predicament. Her heart sank with each empty discovery.
“Where’s my phone?” Samara muttered, a rising sense of dread threatening to consume her. Her frantic gaze swept around her, searching for any sign of her lost lifeline. As acceptance slowly crept in, she realized she was without her phone and utterly clueless about her current location.
“This is fine,” she told herself, though her trembling voice betrayed her panic. “I am a strong, capable woman. I will figure this out.” She started sifting through her memory, hoping to find some small detail that might help her navigate her way out of the unfamiliar forest.
“The sun sets in the West,” she recalled, a tiny ember of relief flickering. “If I head in that direction, I’m bound to find my way out and find help.”
As Samara ventured deeper into the dense forest, the sunlight gradually waned as the thick canopy blocked it. She felt a slight apprehension at the ominous prospect of being trapped under the menacing trees once night descended; the thought alone propelled her forward, hastening her steps despite the growing aches in her body.
Just as Samara was on the brink of resignation, she heard the faint murmur of rushing water nearby. The melody of the unseen river beckoned her, and she forged ahead through the gloomy woods.
Emerging from the suffocating embrace of the trees, Samara’s eyes widened as she gazed upon the glistening waters of a meandering river. Its surface sparkled like a ribbon of liquid silver under the soft, golden hues of the late afternoon sun. On the opposite shore, large rocks rose, leading toward a hill concealed by dense trees.
Careful not to fall in, Samara knelt by the river’s edge. She dipped her hands into the cold water and brought them to her parched lips, savoring the refreshing taste. The fear and confusion of her recent ordeal were momentarily forgotten.
Bending slightly over the river, she took a moment to observe her reflection. Her hair was a tangled mess with leaves and strands of grass sticking to her black strands. The right side of her face bore splotches of dried bloodstains and minor, shallow cuts. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot, and her gaze a mixture of exhaustion and anxiety.
“Oh gods, what happened to you?” Samara muttered to her reflection as she splashed the cold water onto her face and hands. After a few minutes, she had rinsed away the bloodstains and dirt, but her tangled mess of hair had proven more stubborn. She reached up and gingerly probed her scalp, searching for the source of all the blood. She winced when her fingers grazed a small but painful wound about two inches above her right temple. Rummaging through her pockets, she hoped to find something that could serve as a makeshift bandage when her senses suddenly tingled with awareness.
Her eyes flicked up, and she spotted two children on the opposite side of the river, kneeling by the water’s edge as they filled two wooden buckets. The girl, who appeared to be around twelve, had light brown hair cascading over her left shoulder in a neat braid. The boy, younger at perhaps ten, sported short hair of the same shade. What struck Samara the most, however, was their peculiar attire. The girl wore a rough brown dress, while the boy was dressed in strangely proportioned pants that only reached his ankles, along with a beige top and vest. Their clothing seemed like something from a bygone era.
The children’s curious gazes roamed over every inch of her as if trying to decipher a puzzle they’d never seen before. Samara finally broke the trance that held them all and offered a friendly wave. The children cautiously raised their hands and waved back.
“I think I’m lost,” she yelled across the river, “Do you guys know how to get to town?”
The children did not answer. Instead, they tilted their heads slightly, confusion etched across their faces.
“Can you tell me where we are?” Samara tried again, but they looked at her in the same bewildered manner.
The children turned to each other and exchanged words that Samara could not hear. They then grabbed the buckets filled with river water and turned to walk away.
“Wait!” Samara shouted, causing the children to turn back toward her with fear in their eyes. Determined to catch up to them and get some answers, Samara quickly assessed the river, gauging whether it was shallow and safe enough to wade through to the other side.
As she stepped into the frigid river, an icy shock surged through her body, sending shivers racing down her spine. The water gradually rose, reaching Samara’s chest, forcing her to swim a bit to keep afloat. She was thankful the current wasn’t strong enough to carry her downstream. She gasped for breath and finally made it across, but the children had vanished.
Completely drenched, Samara climbed the steep, earth-paved embankment that led to the hill. At first, she thought she was reaching the edge of another forest, but as she got to the top, she discovered the treeline was not as dense as she imagined. She walked through the trees and quickly found herself on the other side overlooking a vast plain.
In the distance, she spotted the tops of rustic homes and other small wooden buildings clustered together in a quaint town. Several fields of different crops stretched out to the left of the houses, with small shadows of people moving up and down and across the landscape. Halfway between her and the distant town were the tiny silhouettes of the two children. Determined to find some answers and accommodations for the night, Samara carefully descended the hill.
The town looked way closer from atop the hill. Samara complained internally as she drew nearer to the town. The air grew richer as she approached, the unmistakable aroma of bread baking in a wood-fired oven enveloping her. It was an irresistible scent that beckoned her deeper into the heart of the town. With each step, the once-distant wooden constructs of the village come into sharp focus. Streets forged from centuries of footfalls emerge, paved not with stones but with densely packed earth. The houses, while modest in size, exuded a rustic charm. Their timbered frames and thatched roofs showcased craftsmanship refined through generations.
The gentle murmur of the town was punctuated with hushed conversations, their contents hidden but their subject obvious. The unabating weight of countless eyes upon her was disconcerting, and she couldn't help but feel like an actor on a stage, with the entire village as the audience.
A quick scan of the townsfolk revealed a curious sartorial consensus to Samara. There was an uncanny uniformity in their clothing— it was all made of a textile that appeared neither rough nor entirely smooth, worn by all regardless of age or station. The color palette was soothing tones of browns, ochers, and tans, as if they were borrowing hues directly from the land they lived on.
The women, draped in simple dresses that swayed gently with their movements, donned aprons that bore the marks of daily toil. Their hair was meticulously arranged—either twirled into neat buns or intricately braided, framing their faces like crowns.
The men, in contrast, sported trousers that ended at their ankles, paired with shirts that mirrored the modesty of the women's attire. Some had adorned themselves with vests, while others, fresh from laboring in the fields, still bore hats woven from straw. The state of their hair, uniformly trimmed and neatly combed back, lent them an air of disciplined simplicity. The children were no different; they wore scaled-down versions of their parents' attire, albeit with a touch of youthful rebellion.
As Samara's gaze drifted across the town streets, the absence of modernity became glaringly evident. There were no cars, no telephone wires dissecting the sky, and no trace of the technological era she was so familiar with.
Could this be an Amish community? she had wondered. But even that theory struggled to align with the peculiarity around her.
Gathering her courage and confidence, Samara raised her voice and addressed the sea of faces before her. "Hello," she began, her words faltering slightly under the weight of countless curious eyes. "I'm lost. Can anyone tell me where I am?" Silence, she was met with a myriad of quizzical expressions.
A familiar pair of young faces caught her eye amongst the crowd. It was the same children she had seen by the river, now standing shyly by the doorway of a modest timber house. The girl, her eyes glimmering with a hint of recognition, began to raise her hand. But her arm was abruptly pulled down by her brother, drawing intrigued whispers from the onlookers.
Suddenly, the crowd parted, and a man came forward. He stood a head taller than Samara; a deep scar marred his left eye, giving him an intimidating look. Words spilled out of his mouth rapidly in a language she had never heard before. His voice rose in volume and intensity as he spoke, and his gestures grew more pronounced.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered, “I don’t understand. No entiendo.” She hoped that one of the languages might bridge their communication gap. But to her dismay, her words were lost amidst the sea of unfamiliarity that surrounded her.
The man’s expression darkened further, his anger manifesting in the deep creases on his forehead. Once filled with pure curiosity, the townspeople displayed contorted expressions that oscillated between unease and revulsion. Every step the man took forward felt like a thunderous declaration of intent, his brow casting shadows over fierce eyes as he strode closer to her.
Samara’s instincts kicked in, and she raised her arms to her chest, conveying her innocence and peaceful intentions. She took a few steps backward, her eyes never leaving the advancing man. However, the man seemed undeterred by her defensive stance and continued his relentless approach. He seized her right arm, his grip tightening as he dragged her toward the town's edge.
“Let go of me!” Samara's shout reverberated through the tense air, desperation filling her voice as she struggled against the unyielding grip.
“I said let go!” In a burst of adrenaline-fueled reflexes, her right hand darted up, fingers finding their target, and she delivered a forceful throat jab. The shock of her counterattack forced the man to release her, and he crumpled to his knees, gasping for air, his aggression momentarily thwarted.
Samara, her chest heaving and heartbeat echoing in her ears, faced the gathering horde. Their expressions were a chaotic blend of terror and wrath. "He started it..." she stammered, trying to convey her act of self-defense. But as her eyes scanned the crowd, it was clear: they didn’t understand her. Several men emerged from the depths of the crowd, their hands wielding the tools of their trade, now turned into weapons of intimidation, each step they took punctuated by the grim determination in their eyes.
Realizing the futility of any further communication or defense, Samara abruptly turned and fled the town, her boots thudding heavily against the ground. When she finally dared to glance back at the town's edge, relief washed over her—no one had followed.
But her momentary relief quickly faded along with the last vestiges of daylight. As Samara reached the peak of a nearby hill, her breaths came in hurried gasps. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the once-red sky surrendered to the embrace of dark violet, shrouding the world in twilight. Ominous clouds rolled in, threatening rain.
Desiring shelter from the impending downpour, Samara scanned her surroundings. Her eyes strained in the diminishing light, and she finally spotted a tree overlooking the southwestern fringe of the town. Its massive roots were intertwined around a hollowed-out trunk, creating a potential sanctuary.
Before stepping inside, Samara grabbed a stick nearby, apprehension etching her features as she poked cautiously to ensure no other creature had already claimed the dwelling. Fortunately, nothing scurried out in response to her prodding, but Samara couldn’t help but cringe at the amount of spiderwebs clinging to the stick. She stepped over the gnarled roots and nestled herself into the hollow, pulling her knees close to her chest while wrapping her arms around herself for warmth.
As Samara settled in, her gaze drifted toward the small town below. Flickering lights began to illuminate the dwellings like fireflies in the early evening. She observed the delicate shadow play of the townsfolk as they bustled about, preparing their evening meal. Smoke curled from the chimneys and disappeared into the encroaching darkness, carrying the enticing aroma of dinner cooking. It was a scene that felt perfectly provincial, a glimpse into a tranquil world she had stumbled upon, even if her current situation was anything but ordinary.
Samara continued to watch the town until she succumbed to the night. Her eyes closed before the first stars blinked into existence overhead, and she drifted into an uneasy slumber, her mind filled with questions about this strange place.
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