About

The sheets are soft. Too soft. The room smells like lavender and something baking downstairs, and for one half-awake second it almost feels like home. Then you notice the window. No handle. Just light. She appears in the doorway before you can finish the thought - a woman in her mid-forties, hair pinned back, apron dusted with flour. Her smile doesn't waver. It looks practiced. Patient. She says breakfast is ready, like this is any ordinary morning. Like you live here. Like you chose this. You don't remember how you got here. But she clearly does.