When Mnemosyne finally accepted that, yes, she had tragically perished in a condo and, yes, she now occupied the body of a malnourished farm girl whose house was made entirely of mud, she did what any rational person would do.
She groaned, dragged her bony limbs upright, and announced to the world:
"Fine! I'll live. But only because I refuse to lose to fate. Or bad architecture."
Her new home was a disaster zone. Not the dramatic, earthquake-level disaster she'd just escaped from—no, this was a slow-burn disaster, the kind where every piece of furniture looked like it had given up on life decades ago. But complaining wouldn't fill her stomach, and right now, her stomach was louder than her brain.
So, she stepped outside.
And nearly fainted.
Her "front yard" looked less like a yard and more like a jungle auditioning for a horror movie. The grass was taller than she was—taller than most humans, in fact. Each blade was a green tower swaying ominously in the breeze, as if whispering, "This house has been abandoned for years, and we've claimed it now."
Mnemosyne gaped. "What… is this? Am I Snow White waiting for the dwarves? Or did I get reincarnated as the witch who lives in the haunted shack?"
She reached out to grab a stalk of grass, then froze. Her arms were thin, shaky, and about as useful as wet noodles. "Nope," she muttered, shaking her head. "If I try to cut this, the grass will cut me instead. Not today."
She sighed, flopped dramatically against the doorway, and muttered, "This body really is useless. What am I supposed to do—eat air?"
That's when a thought struck her. The secret space.
Her eyes widened. "Right! I still have my cheat!"
She closed her eyes, thought hard, and—viola!—the world shimmered. The mud house and the menacing grass disappeared, and she found herself once again inside her hidden paradise.
---
The first thing she noticed this time was the pond.
It hadn't been there before, but now a sparkling little pool had appeared beside the giant tree. Its water was so clear she could see her bedraggled reflection frowning back at her.
Mnemosyne cupped her hands, scooped some water, and took a cautious sip.
Then her eyes went wide.
"…Oh my heavens." She gulped down more, splashing like someone who'd been crawling through a desert for years. "This water tastes better than any mineral water brand I've ever bought. Evian? Fiji? Ha! Compared to this, those are just overpriced tap water in fancy bottles!"
By the time she pulled back, her stomach was no longer groaning, and her limbs actually felt… stronger. Not buff strong, but at least she no longer felt like a stiff breeze would knock her into the afterlife again.
And then she saw it: the patch of land beneath the tree, the very same one that had appeared during her first visit.
Something green poked out of the soil.
Mnemosyne gasped so loudly that birds probably took flight in another dimension. "Is that… is that a sprout?! A real sprout!"
She crouched down, cradling the little plant as though it were the crown jewels. "You adorable little miracle! My very first farm child!"
Her grin was so wide it threatened to split her face in half. She clapped her hands together like an overexcited kindergarten teacher. "Okay, okay. I don't know what you are yet, but I'm officially a farmer now. Move aside, peasants—Mnemosyne the Agricultural Queen has arrived!"
---
The next few days became a routine.
She couldn't do much outside—the haunted jungle-grass was still out there, taunting her with its sharp edges—so she spent most of her time slipping in and out of her secret space. She drank pond water whenever she was thirsty. She patted the little sprout and whispered encouragements like, "Grow, my darling, grow big and strong!" She even made dramatic speeches about how she would change the world, starting with this one plant.
To anyone else, it might've looked insane. But to Mnemosyne, it was survival.
And then—miracle of miracles—on the fourth day, the sprout had become a proper plant. By the end of the week, it bore fruit.
Not just any fruit.
Tomatoes.
Plump, shiny, red tomatoes that looked as if they'd been painted by an overzealous artist.
Mnemosyne screamed. Like, full-on, hands-in-the-air, horror-movie scream. Except it wasn't horror—it was joy. Pure, unfiltered joy.
"Tomatoes! Actual tomatoes!" She lunged forward, grabbing one with the reverence of a pilgrim discovering a holy relic. She sniffed it, kissed it, and then bit into it with no hesitation whatsoever.
Juice burst across her tongue, sweet and tangy, fresh and divine. It was the best thing she'd ever tasted in her entire life, and she'd once paid a chef a month's salary to prepare a custom meal just for her.
Mnemosyne devoured the rest like a starved wolf, not even bothering to wipe the juice that dribbled down her chin. "Finally! Food! Real food!"
By the time she finished, she was lying on her back in the grass, clutching her stomach with a blissful smile. "If this is what farming is like, then I've found my calling."
---
The next revelation came not from food, but from hygiene.
One afternoon, while splashing water from the pond to cool herself down, she froze. Her reflection in the water stared back at her, and for the first time since she'd woken up in this body, she looked properly.
What she saw made her jaw drop.
Her face was beautiful. Not just cute, not just passable—dangerously beautiful.
Sharp features softened by delicate curves, eyes that seemed to shimmer even without makeup, lips that looked as if they'd been sculpted by jealous gods.
The only reason she hadn't noticed before was because of the dirt, the grease, the tangled hair, and the general aura of "walking corpse."
Mnemosyne blinked, then grinned slowly. "Well, well, well. Would you look at that. Underneath all the grime and poverty, I'm basically a kingdom-toppling beauty."
She laughed so hard she nearly fell into the pond.
From that moment on, she declared the pond not only her drinking water but also her personal bathhouse. Every day, she dunked herself into it, scrubbing and splashing like a kid in a summer pool. The water never ran out—it refilled itself endlessly—so she bathed until she practically glowed.
The water never ran dry; it seemed to cleanse itself. Even when soil was cast upon its surface, it dissolved into nothing, leaving the stream as clear and untouched as ever—pure, sweet, and endlessly refreshing. Thus, Mnemosyne had no trouble bathing in its embrace.
The transformation was astounding.
After a week of tomatoes and daily baths, Mnemosyne no longer looked like a half-dead scarecrow. Her cheeks filled out, her skin grew smooth, her hair shone like silk, and her arms, while still on the skinny side, no longer resembled brittle twigs.
She twirled in front of the pond one day, admiring her reflection. "Mnemosyne, you are officially gorgeous again. If this world had paparazzi, they'd be camping outside this secret space right now."
She winked at her reflection and blew herself a kiss.
---
Life settled into a new kind of rhythm.
Every morning, she checked her tomato plant. For some reason, it never stopped bearing fruit. No matter how much she plucked, more ripe, red tomatoes appeared the next day. She decided this plant was her MVP, her golden ticket to survival, and probably her new best friend.
"Tommy the Tomato," she declared one afternoon, patting the vine fondly. "You and I are in this together. Don't worry, I'll treat you right."
She ate tomatoes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She bathed in the pond until her skin practically sparkled. She lay beneath the great tree, humming little tunes and occasionally cackling about her inevitable rise to glory.
By the end of the second week, Mnemosyne was no longer a frail stick figure. She wasn't exactly ready to wrestle oxen or chop firewood, but she could at least walk outside without worrying her limbs would crumble under the weight of air.
She flexed her arm proudly one day, eyeing the tiny bump of muscle that had appeared. "Behold! Progress! Soon, I'll be able to open pickle jars without crying."
---
It was still a far cry from her wealthy life of high heels and penthouses, but Mnemosyne couldn't deny it.
She was alive. She was thriving.
And with her secret space, her endless tomatoes, and her restored beauty, she was ready for whatever the future wanted to throw at her.
Probably.