Late one night in a major city, an overworked and underpaid office worker decided to cross the street without waiting for the crossing signal. She was tired and a bit damp.

Her last thoughts were about the cold streak of rainwater that had snaked its way past her shirt collar and down her back.

Before the woman could spare another sleepy grumble, the world went very bright and very dark at the same time.

Oh, how odd, she thought. She felt as if she was being squeezed down a long, narrow tube. The sensation of being turned inside out made her close her eyes against the wash of light and dark that played over her eyelids.

Her eyes fluttered open and she was greeted by an ornate ceiling directly above. Confusion clouded her mind as she struggled to make sense of her surroundings. Everything felt foreign. The sound of the city street was gone, along with the feeling of dampness and the rushing wind. Pushing herself up from plush bedding, the woman’s gaze fell upon the reflection in the grand mirror across the room. It was a stranger’s face. She leapt from the bed and rushed to the mirror. Delicate, feminine features grew pale in the reflection as she searched the mirror for some small amount of familiarity.

Who am I? Her mind raced. Whose face is this?

Heart pounding, she searched her memories, trying to piece together the events leading up to that moment. But try as she might, her mind was shrouded in darkness, memories slipping through her fingers like sand. Slowly, she remembered the cold walk home from the office and the shifting lights that had enveloped her.

In a nervous gesture, she ran the stranger's fingers through red-brown curls that shone healthily in the mirror. She could have sworn she had a short black bob, but the curls felt real, especially after a tug for good measure.

My name is Sara, she thought. I am twenty-eight years old. I still have all ten fingers and ten toes. The recitation of miscellaneous facts calmed her enough that she was able to step away from the reflection and face the rest of the room.

Sara tentatively explored the opulent chambers, her bare feet padding quietly across thick carpeting. A white nightgown with a lacy finish swirled around her legs as if she was a ghost in a Victorian novel.

There was a large fireplace and several dim lamps that lit the room. Her phone was nowhere to be seen, which felt like a nonsense concern when compared to the stranger’s face in the mirror; still, she couldn’t stop herself from searching for it.

There were no light switches for her to brighten the room, and soon she realized that there were no electrical outlets, either. A quick inspection showed that the lamps were lit with gas, something she’d never seen before in real life.

The search was frustrating and only added more questions. Sara could tell the room was styled in a historical aesthetic, but it gave her no clues to where she was. A large grandfather clock against the wall had the small hand on the six, but she couldn’t tell if it was morning or evening from the dark sky outside the window. Had she been kidnapped while walking home from work that evening? Was she having a stroke?

As she fumbled around the unfamiliar space, she came upon a desk cluttered with papers, fountain pens, and charcoal pencils. Barely suppressing the panic that threatened to bubble over, she began to sift through the documents in the hopes that they might offer clues to her situation.

When the papers revealed nonsense text in an alphabet she couldn’t understand, the panic could no longer be suppressed. Sara strode back to the four poster bed and threw herself under the crisp linen sheets. She willed herself to sleep and convinced herself it was a very vivid dream.

Sleep came, and dreams certainly followed. She was floating, formless, unable to see her own hands or feet in the endless gloom. A dim mote of light floated gently to the center of Sara’s awareness, and she touched it without hands. It was warm and comforting.

A voice echoed in the darkness.

“Oh, you’ve found her already.” The voice was all-consuming, and would have sent Sara to her knees if she had any. The presence that approached her in the darkness made her want to beg for mercy without reason. She clutched the dull mote of light to her chest and was surprised to find she had a chest in the darkness.

It felt like speaking through a mouth of maple syrup, but Sara finally eked out a question through the oppressive fog. “Who are you?”

Golden light was forming into a swirling mass. It seemed almost playful as it responded. “I am the goddess of this world, and this little thing is one of the poor souls for whom I care.”

Sensation came easier now. Sara looked down and saw that her body was coming together, and it was indeed her body, not the stranger’s. However, Sara’s body glowed in a way that was almost blinding in comparison to the gloomy shimmer of the dust mote in her hands.

“As you can see,” continued the goddess, “that poor soul has been weakened terribly by its experience in this world.”

Sara put her hands out and cradled the shivering soul. Despite her own situation, she couldn’t help but waste precious words by asking: “What happened to it?”

The goddess smiled so sadly in response that it felt like a single tear dropping down a thousand faces.

“This poor young woman prayed and prayed for a second chance, and I have gathered all my divine power in order to grant her wish and turn back time. But as you can see, she is in no condition to live another hard life with the events that are sure to come.”

The mote of light wavered gently in Sara’s palms as if to show its unwillingness to go on.

“Your soul was nearby, and I have used the very last of my strength to place your soul in that body.”

Seeing the confusion on Sara’s face, the goddess continued, “We ask that you live on in that body, and fulfill this soul’s last wish, for it is all I can do as a failing god in a world that no longer believes.”

Sara had to work desperately hard to not be swayed by the appeal to sympathy; it was a near-palpable feeling being transmitted from the mysterious figure. She could feel her own indignation underneath the forced emotion from the goddess. She tried to force it to the surface. “What do you mean my soul was nearby? Did I die?”

Another mysterious smile, but this time the wave of emotion that rolled over Sara was pity. She could barely contain the rage in her next words; feelings were coming easier now.

“You haven’t explained anything. Why did I wake up in that museum bedroom? Where is my phone? Why do I look like that?”

The goddess glowed brightly and said, possibly a bit annoyed, “I explained everything. Your soul is now in Liliana’s body, and -”

“See!” cried Sara. “That’s the first I’ve heard the name Liliana!” She almost clenched her fist until the aforementioned Liliana quivered violently, reminding Sara that she supposedly had a soul in her hand. She relaxed her fingers, silently apologizing to the poor thing.

“Yes, and that strength of yours is exactly why you must complete what Liliana could not and right the wrongs she was forced to commit -”

“What am I supposed to do? That is not a fucking explanation!”

The goddess sighed. The darkness around them became inexplicably thinner, and all three lights - the goddess, Sara, and the tiny soul in her hands - dimmed and wavered. The divine being had a distinctly peeved tone of voice as it spoke its final words.

“All I can give you is a guide. Here is the diary of that poor soul, including her original ending.”

A book suddenly appeared in Sara’s arms, and when she felt the weight of it upon her chest, she realized she was not floating upright but lying down in bed. There was a real book under the sheets with her. When she opened it to a random page and squinted at it in the dim light of the bedroom, she saw that it was in the same handwriting and mystery alphabet from the papers on the desk.

This time, however, something in Sara’s mind seemed to snap uncomfortably into place. Her vision wavered for a moment; after it cleared, she could read the text beneath her fingertips.

Father praised me for the engagement ceremony. It was well done, he said. I am relieved. Prince Henry will soon be elevated to crown prince…

The goddess’ suspicious words about the ‘original ending’ rang in Sara’s ears louder than her astonishment at her sudden ability to read a new language. She flipped to the last pages, where neat cursive handwriting had long since given way to a hurried scrawl.

The revolutionaries have started attacking the capital. H says his father will take care of it. I am so scared. They will not forgive us…

Sara’s attention was ripped from the page before she could read any more.