"My lady, you have woken up," said a woman in a plain brown dress, her face lined with what might be concern or suspicion—I can't tell which.  

She looks about my mother's age, maybe older.  Another girl stands beside her—nineteen, maybe twenty—wearing the same drab uniform, her hair pulled back so severely it must hurt. Servants? Captors? Caretakers?

"My lady, you're here. Finally, we find you back. I'm so worried," the younger one says, rushing toward me.

I want to scream but also to embrace her—this stranger who seems to know me. My limbs feel leaden with fear yet oddly comfortable in this bed. Should I pretend to recognize them? Run? Demand answers?

"My lady, it's been a night since you slept," the girl continues, hovering too close.

"What a fresh morning we have," the older woman adds with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. 

Morning? Last I remember was Ethan's back against my cheek... unless that too was just another dream? Suddenly, the girl talks again.

"My lady? Do you...still remember us?" She looks in my eyes, her voice trembling like a leaf.

I open my mouth, then close it. The silence stretches between us like a chasm.

They exchange glances, fear flashing across their faces.

"My lady..." the elder woman steps forward, wringing her hands. "Do you know my name?"

Their eyes bore into me—hopeful, terrified, pleading. Part of me wants to nod, to fabricate recognition just to ease the naked panic on their faces. Would it be cruel or kind to pretend? My fingers twitch with the urge to reach out, to comfort them somehow. But another part rebels against the lie. I am a stranger here, even to myself. The truth feels both like a betrayal and the only honest path forward. But I choose to be honest. 

"Excuse me, who are you guys? Do you know me?" I respond bluntly.

Their faces freeze. The elder woman's hand flies to her throat while the younger one's eyes widen to perfect circles.

"My lady... we are your maids, serving you since you were young," whispers the elder woman, voice cracking.

"You are Lady Athene," the younger girl says, dropping to her knees. 

"I failed to free you from sadness….I fell asleep that night. If I hadn't, you wouldn't have gotten lost outside alone. I'm sorry, my lady.."

"Enough!" The elderly woman's voice wavers. "Our lady suffers enough without—" She breaks off, tears streaming down her weathered face.

They kneel before me, shoulders shaking with sobs, apologizing over and over. I want to step away—these strangers weeping for someone I don't remember being. Yet something in me aches to comfort them. I almost reach out, then pull back my hand. Am I their lady or an imposter? Should I pretend to remember, or tell them the truth and watch their world crumble further? Their devotion terrifies me. Their grief calls to me. Both feel like traps.

However, Their tears stir something in me—a ghost of familiarity I can't quite grasp. These women loved my predecessor deeply. But honestly, there’s nothing I could do . I can’t encourage them or pretend to know them when I don’t. Authenticity is a part of the game in my life, without it, I am just a fool of my own performances.

I remain silent, torn between cold detachment and an unexpected urge to comfort them. My expression softens despite myself.

"I'm sorry, but where am I? And—"  I hesitate, hating how my voice wavers, "who are you?"

They cry harder. Part of me wants to join them—to mourn the person they've lost, the one I'm failing to be. But I can't afford sentimentality. Not yet. I need information about this world, about the family my multiverse twin belonged to.

"My lady... you really don't remember me? I've served you since we were both young. You're like a big sister to me. I'm Nina. The one you would dance with under the rain,"  the younger maid says between sobs.

"And I am Zoey. I've cared for your grace's well-being since you were small," adds the elder, her weathered face crumpling.

AH. I see. So one is Nina and the other one is Zoey. Must be my loyal maids before.

"Where am I right now?" I asked, my voice wavering innocently to avoid any suspicion. This is just my natural defensive tendency.

"My lady, this is your bedroom. You would dance alone at night in the middle." Zoey's words felt both familiar and foreign, like a memory that belonged to someone else.

"How come you would forget this ... my lady?"

And they cry and moan for so many things, the past memories between my multiverse twin and them. Their voices rise and fall around me like waves, words about nothing I can follow anymore—their feelings have swallowed any meaning. Part of me wants to scream for them to stop, to make sense again, but another part feels safer in this numbness, this distance. I'm frozen between these impulses until heavy footsteps approach, each thud both a relief and a new threat.