"This is all your fault!" The man in the lab coat shouts, his dark eyes glaring at her. Samara stumbled back, disoriented, and found herself in a large lab room in complete disarray. The lights overhead flickered dimly; panels from the ceiling were missing while others hung precariously over them. Computer screens were cracked and broken apart, chairs were strewn about, and smoky fires burned nearby, stinging her eyes. An alarm sounded somewhere off in the distance.
"Dad, what happened?" Her voice sounded much younger than she remembered. The man in the lab coat, her father, didn't respond to her. Instead, he knelt beside the bloodied body of a woman. He cradled her lifeless form and sobbed.
"Dad?" She tried again, approaching him.
Stay away!" He yelled before pushing her.
Samara jolted awake, her heart pounding in her chest as unfamiliar surroundings blur into focus. Propping herself up on her elbows, she scanned the quaint room, her eyes landing on the small boy sleeping peacefully on the bed beside hers. As she leaned across the bed to look closely at his face, a slight tug at her hair drew her attention to the young girl beside her, strands of Samara's long dark hair in her tiny hands and a worried expression etched across her face, clearly having sensed Samara's distress.
Samara offered her a gentle smile of reassurance as memories of the day before flooded back. The young girl’s expression softened into a kind smile as Samara eased herself back onto the bed. The little girl resumed braiding Samara’s hair, her nimble fingers working diligently. Samara took note of two other braids, intricately woven while she slept.
The room was shrouded in a soft darkness that whispered of the impending sunrise. Unable to fall back asleep, Samara’s mind drifted back to the nightmare, attempting to dissect the scene she had witnessed.
Who was Father holding? She asked herself, trying to recall the details of the woman. However, as is the nature of all dreams, the details began to slip away, fading into the recesses of her mind the longer she remained awake. Once the dream finally faded from her mind, Samara decided to focus on meticulously sifting through her memories instead. Her gaze was locked on the ceiling as if it were a movie screen, and she forced herself to recall every detail she could remember, from her childhood and school days to her best friend and even those cringeworthy teenage moments she’d rather forget.
As she navigated the labyrinth of her past, Samara grew increasingly sure that she was not suffering from amnesia. She remembered her life, and she knew exactly who she was. Yet, everything about the day she fell through space and time, landing in this unfamiliar world, remained unclear. Her memories of working in the lab were fragmented and hazy, as if shrouded in a thick fog.
Shafts of sunlight pierced through the shutters, announcing the sun's rise, and bathed the room in a warm glow. The young girl finished with her third braid and hopped off the bed, her steps light and purposeful as she made her way to the other bed, where the small boy peacefully slept. She placed her hands firmly on his shoulders and vigorously shook him. To Samara's amazement, the boy remains in the clutches of his dreams, his tiny body limp and unresponsive to the waking world. Undeterred, the girl leaned in, her voice loud and clear as she shouted into his ear.
“Cyril!” The name echoed in the small room, breaking the morning stillness. The young boy scrunched his face and swatted at his ear as if trying to get rid of an annoying insect. But the young girl was relentless. Climbing onto the bed, she positioned her hands beneath him and, with a deep breath, she lifted and shoved, sending the boy tumbling to the floor with a resounding thud.
A bubble of laughter formed in Samara’s throat, but she bit the inside of her cheeks and covered her mouth with her hand, stifling the sound. Memories of her childhood sleepovers with her cousins flooded her with warmth and longing. She lowered her hand and noticed each finger meticulously wrapped in a gentle gauze. An involuntary smile touched her lips as she realized the young girl must have also treated her injuries while asleep.
From the floor, the boy sprang to his feet, his face twisted in boyish indignation. He lunged at the bed, but the girl was too quick, hopping away while laughing, which only fueled his frustration. Watching their playful squabble, Samara can't help but smile at their sibling antics.
“Cyril?” She called out suddenly, a hint of curiosity in her voice. The boy froze, turning to her with wide, shocked eyes. She pointed at him, repeating his name. He pointed at himself in response, nodding vigorously as he echoed his name with a slight lisp.
The young girl sprang off the bed gracefully beside Cyril, her tiny index finger proudly tapping against her chest. “Adelia,” she declared, jabbing her chest with more emphasis. Her finger then swiveled towards Cyril, “Cyril,” and back to herself, “Adelia,” making sure to enunciate clearly.
Samara mirrored the gestures, pointing to herself while announcing her name, then to Cyril, and finally to Adelia, solidifying their names in her memory.
Adelia quickly repeated, "Samara," and beamed at her, her smile radiant and welcoming. Cyril, however, seems to grapple with the pronunciation, “Thamara?” he ventured hesitantly, the glint of realization in his eyes suggesting he was aware of the mispronunciation. He struggled again, but the 'S' sound kept alluding to him. Samara couldn't help but smile, the corners of her mouth twitching, trying to suppress the urge to coo at the boy's endearing lisp.
She gently pointed to herself again, offering a simplified version of her name, "Mara." She repeated it a few times, ensuring clarity. Adelia caught on instantly, her quick mind adapting to the change. She turned to Cyril and exchanged a few words. Then Cyril faced Samara again, a small smile playing on his lips as he successfully said, "Mara." Adelia followed suit, adopting the nickname with ease.
A knock on the bedroom door interrupted their exchange, and as the door swung open, an older man appeared in the doorway. It was the same man Samara recalled from the previous night's dinner table. Adelia rushed towards him, wrapping her tiny arms around him warmly. She then grabbed his hand and guided him into the room with an excited chatter.
With a proud gesture, she introduced Samara, referring to her as "Mara." The older man nodded in understanding, making eye contact with Samara as he pointed to himself, introducing himself as "Tomlin."
Tomlin addressed the children, his voice firm yet gentle as he provided them with instructions. With a final, acknowledging nod in Samara's direction, he left the room, leaving them to their morning routines.
The children promptly retrieved clothing from trunks at the foot of their beds and started changing out of their nightwear. Unsure of her role in this domestic ballet, Samara rose from the bed and began to tidy up the sleeping spaces, smoothing out wrinkles and fluffing the pillows with care.
Dressed and ready, the small group made their way to the kitchen. When they entered, Samara encountered a familiar sight: the woman from the previous night. Draped against the woman's back, secured in a beautifully woven carrier, was a slumbering toddler. Catching sight of Samara, the woman's lips curled into a soft, inviting smile.
Adelia wasted no time with introductions. She pointed to the woman, "Ada," and then to the small child on her back, "Finn." Samara repeated the names, confirming her understanding.
Adelia retrieved bowls and utensils from a wooden cupboard near the stove as Ada continued to stir a pot of what looked like thick oatmeal. She then began ladling the contents into the bowls, and with Adelia's help, they set the table. Once the children were seated with their breakfast, Ada kissed Adelia's and Cyril's forehead tenderly. She cast a departing wave at Samara on her way out.
Is she the housekeeper? Samara mused as she sat at the table and surveyed the modest dwelling. Apart from the dining table, there were two chairs by the front door, a rocking chair opposite the fireplace, and a well-used upholstered chair beside it. There was also a small cabinet in the kitchen with four drawers, likely containing additional kitchen utensils.
In unison, Adelia, Cyril, and Tomlin bowed their heads in prayer. Samara mimicked their actions, whispering the foreign words she heard them utter. The rest of breakfast unfolded in silence, much like dinner had the night before. They ate attentively, and as soon as the meal was finished, they rose to clear the table, each knowing their role in this well-practiced routine.
Tomlin was the first to make his exit. He embraced each child in a warm hug, planting a small kiss on their foreheads. He tipped his straw hat in Samara’s direction and headed towards the fields, his silhouette gradually merging with the landscape.
As soon as Tomlin was a speck in the distance, Cyril hurriedly shoved his feet into his shoes and dashed out of the house. He joined a gathering circle of boys just a few feet from their doorstep.
Adelia watched the young boy scamper away, with her hands firmly planted on her hips, shaking her head and muttering “tsk tsk” under her breath as she watched her brother’s antics. Samara let out a chuckle, the sight too heartwarming to resist. The sound of Samara’s laughter caught Adelia's attention, and soon enough, she was also caught in the contagious ripple of mirth, releasing a few giggles of her own.
With a swift motion, Adelia grabbed Samara’s hand and pulled her back into the room. She retrieved an apron and an outer garment, which bore a striking resemblance to the attire Samara had seen on the other women in town. Samara began to remove her dress, but Adelia shook her head, miming that Samara should layer the new clothing over her existing outfit.
Samara’s eyes widened in disbelief, a silent question hanging in the air. How did these women wear double layers in such oppressive heat and humidity? Not wanting to be rude, she slipped into the additional layers, immediately feeling the weight of the extra fabric as it clung to her skin.
Adelia then nudged Samara towards the small table against the wall, and with a brush in hand, she set to work on taming Samara's mane. Her small fingers struggled to manage the thick, abundant locks. Overwhelmed by the sheer amount of hair, Adelia ditched the idea of a bun and split the hair down the middle, weaving it into two braids, which she then crossed at the back and secured at the front around Samara’s temples. The pins poked at the small graze hidden beneath the mass of hair, causing Samara to wince.
The absence of mirrors left Samara reliant on Adelia’s reaction to know how well she’d done. The child’s puzzled look said it all— it wasn't the hairstyle she had envisioned. Feeling around her with her uninjured hand, Samara could feel protruding clumps of hair and errant braid ends sticking oddly from her head.
Adelia stared at Samara in contemplation when her eyes lit up with inspiration. She dashed to her trunk, her tiny body disappearing halfway inside as she rummaged around. Triumphantly, she retrieved a long sapphire blue ribbon and hurried back to Samara. She carefully wrapped the ribbon around Samara’s head, concealing the unruly lumps of hair. Once satisfied, she looks up at Samara, her smile wide and bright, a clear sign of approval for her handiwork.
The front door opened to reveal Cyril when Samara and Adelia stepped back into the living area. His once-pristine trousers now displayed dark streaks of dirt on his knees, and the palms of his hands were streaked with a mix of dirt and sweat—all evidence of a fall or tussle. Most telling, however, was the trail of dampness on his cheek, remnants of tears hastily wiped away but not fast enough to escape notice.
Without missing a beat, Adelia swiftly moved to his side; her brow furrowed in concern as she bombarded him with a flurry of rapid-fire questions. Still catching his breath from whatever ordeal he’d just endured, Cyril responded in meek, hushed tones. His eyes flickered with relief as he confided in his sister.
Having pieced together the story from Cyril's fragmented account, Adelia's face hardened with determination. Striding purposefully, she exited the house, ready to right whatever wrongs had befallen her younger brother.
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