I woke up to the sound of a house that did not know me. There was a faint hum somewhere above my head, a slow pulse from something electronic, and the small tick of pipes inside the wall. I did not open my eyes immediately, because I already understood that opening them would not explain anything. I lay still and listened first.
The air smelled like detergent, dust that had been wiped but not washed, and a trace of lemon. The sheet under my hands was thin and clean. My palms were a little clammy. My chest felt heavy in a way that did not match normal tiredness. It felt like a flat stone had been set on my breastbone during the night, and now I was supposed to breathe around it.
I tried to remember my name. I tried to remember any clear fact: a birthday, a school, a job title, a door code, a friend's voice. Nothing came. The blankness was not dramatic. It was quiet and full. It made me scared in a practical way, like realizing a step is missing in the dark after you have already put your weight forward.
I opened my eyes. The room gave me smudged light and darker shapes. My sight was there but not useful. I could tell where the window was because that rectangle was brighter than the rest. I could tell there was a wardrobe because the shadow along one wall was wider and taller. I couldn't read anything on the bedside table. I knew from the way light bled at the edges that my eyes were clouded and that this was not new to this body.
I said, "Okay," out loud, because sound made me feel less like a mistake. My voice was softer than I expected, a little young, a little hoarse. Hearing it made me more afraid. I swallowed and tried again. "Okay. Start small."
I bent my elbows and pushed myself up. My arms trembled more than they should have. The stone feeling in my chest got worse for a second and then eased as I sat upright. When I moved my legs, they felt heavy and a little numb. My toes found a rug at the side of the bed. It was thin, with a rough line where the edge had frayed. The floor under the rug was cold.
I kept my left hand on the edge of the mattress and used my right hand to feel what was on the bedside table. There was a lamp with a linen shade, a glass with a trace of water inside, a plastic pill organizer with the days of the week in raised dots. I could feel the bumps under my finger: M, T, W. Some compartments felt empty. I did not know if that meant I had already taken something or if the person who lived here had not filled them.
I slid the drawer open. Inside was a hair tie, a folded receipt, and a pen with a smear of dried ink. I took the hair tie and held it because I needed to hold something that belonged to someone, and right now I had to pretend that someone was me.
I stood up slowly. The room tilted for a moment, and then it settled. I kept one hand on the wall and took small steps toward the brighter rectangle. The window glass felt cool. The frame had a nick where a thumb would press. I did not open it. The cool against my palm was enough to tell me this was a real place.
I walked along the wall to the door. In the hallway, I stayed close to the left side and counted steps, because counting always made me feel like I was still part of a plan. At two steps there was a picture frame. I touched the glass. I could feel the slight difference where the photo met the mat, but I could not make the faces out even if I pressed my forehead close. I moved on.
The first door on the left opened to a small room with a desk. I knew it was a desk because my thigh met a corner and it was the height a desk should be. The chair scraped when I pulled it back. On the desk there was a stack of papers with a rubber band around them, a ceramic cup with pens, and a coaster that was cool to the touch. I picked up the top paper and carried it to the window, but the letters were gray worms. I could not read. I felt the rubber band, slid it off, and fanned the papers with my fingers. Some sheets were thick and glossy. A few had folded corners. I put them back and promised myself I would find a way to know what they said without asking anyone yet.
The kitchen was small and clean. The kettle clicked when I set it on and then hummed. The counter had nothing on it but a drying rack with two bowls, one fork, and one chopstick. I frowned at that. Either there were missing spoons, or the person living here did not have many things, or they had more things in cabinets I hadn't opened yet. I opened one cabinet and found tea, cups, and a small tin with something that smelled like biscuits. I did not want to break the seal on anything that looked new. I chose tea because it was ordinary and because the kettle had already decided we were making some.
I made tea slowly. I burned my tongue a little because my hand shook, and then I laughed once because it felt normal to do something clumsy. I sat with the mug on the counter because I did not trust myself to walk with hot liquid. I sipped and used the other hand to feel the fridge door. There were magnets and a page with a smooth surface clipped under one of them. The magnet felt like a plastic fruit. I tugged the page down and brought it close. I could not read it, but I could feel a logo at the top in raised ink and a phone number length near the bottom. I put it back exactly where I found it.
In the sitting room there was a sofa, a low table, and a small device tucked near a plant that blinked a green light. The device made a faint noise. It could have been an air monitor or a router or something for health. I pressed my finger lightly to my wrist and waited. My pulse was faster than I liked. The green light blinked again, regular, indifferent.
I wanted a mirror and I did not. In the bathroom the mirror gave me only my own blur. I leaned close. The blur was a face. I looked at shapes: a straight nose under my finger, a notch in the left eyebrow where a scar had changed how hair grew, lips fuller than I expected, a chin that felt smaller than the shape I carried in my head for myself. I raised my hand to the back of my head and found hair. It was long. It fell over my shoulder when I pulled it forward. It felt heavier than shoulder-length hair. I had a strong sense that in my life before this I wore my hair short and black, cut for convenience, easy to wash and tie back, sometimes under a cap when I rushed out. I could not tell you where I wore it like that. I could not tell you what job needed it like that. I could only tell you that the weight of this long hair did not match my memory of myself.
I tied it with the elastic from the bedside drawer. The tie felt clumsy on a braid that was already loose from sleep. I re-braided as best I could by touch. The ends were blunt, like someone had trimmed them recently. I put my fingers on my eyes and pressed gently. The world went dark. When I let go, the blur came back. My eyes were not going to improve because I wanted them to. That fact sat in my stomach like something heavy.
I stood at the sink until my hands stopped shaking. Then I said, very clearly, to the empty room, "This is not my body."
Hearing it out loud made my knees weak. I sat on the closed toilet lid and pressed my hands to my thighs. I breathed in for four and out for six. I kept breathing until the panic moved to the side like a person in a narrow hallway who lets you pass. Then I made myself stand up again because I knew from somewhere that if I lay down now I might not get up for hours.
I went looking for a phone. I checked the nightstand first, then the desk, then the edge of the sofa. I found it under the end cushion. I knew it was mine now because it unlocked under my thumb. The screen brightness hurt my eyes, so I said, "Turn brightness down," and it did. The relief of that small success was silly and big at the same time.
"Make a note," I said to the assistant. "I woke up in a house that I do not recognize. My eyes are weak and the world is a blur. I think I am older than this body because I feel older than this voice and because I remember having short black hair and caring more about speed than appearance. I cannot access any clear memory from my previous life. I have general impressions only. I used to read a lot of stories online, including transmigration stories where the main character wakes up in a new body and quickly receives the old owner's memories or a system to help them. I have not received any memories or any system. I am alone and I need to learn without letting anyone know I am different."
I paused. The assistant waited. I added, "I will not call anyone until I know who they are. I will not open the door for anyone unless I can confirm their name by another method."
I saved the note. I found the contacts list. There were only a few numbers saved. Two had stars. One started with Admin. One started with Clinic. I backed out. I didn't want to hear any voice that might expect me to know it.
I checked the photos. I used the voice to zoom. The most recent were of the inside of the flat: the kitchen counter with a new box of tea, the living room plant, a photo of the pill organizer, a blurry shot of a door. I scrolled back. There were a few pictures from a hospital room: a tray with soup, a plastic wristband lying on a table, a hand with a bandage on the back near a vein. I put the phone face down for a second because my stomach turned.
I picked it up again and looked for messages. Most were system notifications. There was one from an unknown number that said "Evening delivery preference confirmed." The timestamp was yesterday night. I didn't remember a delivery. I did not like the idea that someone else had set my preferences. I opened Settings and found the delivery tab. It showed a window between eight and ten p.m. I took a screenshot by reflex and said, "Add to note: evening delivery preference is on; I did not set it."
I checked the drawers in the bedroom. There was a small wallet. Inside were a few coins, a train card, and an ID card. I held the card so close to my face that the plastic touched my nose. The name on it was clear enough to make out by shape. The surname was fuzzy. The first name was not. I read it three times, slowly, with my lips moving to be sure: "Mira."
I said it out loud because I needed to claim something. "Mira." The sound felt right. I did not know if it had always been mine, but it felt right now. I put the ID back in the wallet and put the wallet in the top drawer again. I wanted to hide it better, but I did not know what hiding places this house had yet.
At midday, my hands were steadier. I ate two plain crackers I found in the cupboard and drank more water. I opened the tall cabinet above the fridge by feel and found a box with medical supplies. There were bandages, alcohol wipes, a digital thermometer, and a home blood pressure machine. I closed the cabinet and leaned my forehead against the door. I did not want to know why there was a machine. I took it down anyway, set it on the table, and said to myself, "You can do this." I wrapped the cuff, pressed the button, and waited. The numbers beeped. I could not read them. I laughed once because it was so stupid. Then I said, "Read screen aloud," to the assistant on the phone and pointed it at the device. It read the numbers in a flat voice. The reading was not dangerous. I wrote it down with the pen on the notepad that I placed on the table and dated as best I could.
I kept going because doing small things prevented me from thinking about the big thing, which was that I had died or had come close to dying and now I was here. The flat had clean hand towels and neatly stacked plates. The wardrobe had practical clothes in my size. The underwear drawer had exactly the kind of plain cotton I would have bought for myself in another life when I was too busy to care. The shoes by the door were flat and worn slightly on the outside edges. This person walked like me. That fact made me feel less like an invader and more like a tenant in a body that was being generous about it.
I spoke to myself in long sentences because it kept me calm. "You are going to stay quiet, you are going to make a list, you are going to set small goals, and you are going to blend in until you know more," I said. "You will not say anything strange to anyone who knocks. You will speak as little as possible and let them talk."
I made tea again in the afternoon. I sat on the sofa with the mug in both hands and turned on the television for background noise. The news was on. The presenter had a calm voice and read bad things like they were weather. I let it play because a human voice that did not ask me for anything was helpful. I tried to read the ticker, failed, and stopped trying. I focused on the sound instead.
I organized the desk. I brought the stack of papers to the table and set them in order by thickness. I used the phone's camera to read headlines out loud. Some were bank statements. Some were letters about appointments. There were references to "consultant" and "device checks." The dates were recent. There was one instruction sheet for deliveries and one note from a pharmacy with a sticker that said Friday and a time window. I photographed the sticker and saved it. I thought about the message on my phone that said "evening delivery preference confirmed" and decided to ask, later, who had changed it.
I said to the assistant, "Create a file called 'Questions' and add: Who is my sponsor. Who is my caretaker. Why evening deliveries. Who set preferences. What is being monitored. What was my surgery. Where are my old photos." The assistant saved it. The list made me feel like I had a rope to hold.
I did not nap. I knew if I slept during the day I would be awake at night and worse. I stood at the window with my fingers on the frame and let outside be a blur of shapes and sounds. A bus hissed and pulled away. A man dragged a bin across concrete. Children shouted and then laughed and then were gone. It sounded like the kind of street where people knew when to be quiet and when to be loud.
At four, I had a small wave of panic. It came without warning. My breathing went shallow. My fingers went cold. I walked to the bathroom, ran the tap, and put cold water on my wrists. I talked to myself like I was a friend. "It's okay. You're safe. You're in a flat. The door is locked. Nobody knows you're different. You will be careful. You will not make mistakes."
I waited until the feeling passed. I dried my hands and checked the mirror for the shape of my face again. It was still the same blur. I touched the notch in my eyebrow and tried to imagine how I got it. Nothing came. I accepted that nothing and walked back out.
In the early evening I ate bread with butter because it was simple. I wrote down what I had eaten and drank. I wrote down that I had burned my tongue and that it was already better. I wrote down that the left knee felt stiff when I turned and that it did not hurt when I went straight. I wrote down that the air monitor blinked green all day and that it made a sound only I would notice. I wrote down that I felt older than this body. I wrote down that I remembered reading late at night—novels with people who fell into new worlds and new bodies and who usually got a guide or a system or a neat package of memories to help them. I wrote down that I had none of those things and would have to build my own.
When it got dark, I closed the curtains. I sat with the television on low. I turned the volume up only when the news started again because I wanted the sense of time those broadcasts gave. The presenter began with local stories and then moved to national. I half listened until a phrase hooked me.
"—police have confirmed that a doctor was found dead in the early hours. The deceased is connected to a private clinic group currently under review for patient care practices. Authorities have not released a name pending notification of next of kin. Investigations are ongoing. The clinic group has declined to comment."
I sat up straighter without meaning to. The presenter moved on. I did not move. The words "private clinic group" rubbed against the stack of papers on the table in my mind. The page with appointments. The word "consultant." The delivery sticker. The bank statements. The empty pill organizer. My throat went dry. I swallowed and it didn't help.
I turned the volume down and listened to the silence of the flat instead. It sounded like before. But I felt like after.
I stood and walked once around the rooms to make sure the doors were locked and the windows were closed. I checked the chain. I turned the kettle on because the sound of it was normal and I needed normal. I did not make tea. I just let it boil and click off.
I took the phone and recorded another note. "The news says a doctor connected to a private clinic group is dead. If this is unrelated, I am being dramatic. If it is related, then I am in the middle of something I cannot see. I will act normally. I will not change my routine. I will not call anyone about this. I will wait and listen."
I put the phone on the table. I sat on the sofa and tucked the blanket over my legs. I tied my braid again because it had loosened. I ran my fingers down the length. Near the end, for a second, my fingertips caught on a single strand that felt smoother and cooler than the rest, like a thread of something not quite the same as hair. I told myself I imagined it, because the alternative was thinking about things I was not ready for.
I turned the TV off and left the little green light to blink in the corner. I lay down the way you lie down when you do not trust your body to be kind during the night. On my back at first. Then on my side because it made the stone in my chest feel less heavy. I held the corner of the blanket the way a person holds a thought so it does not get away.
"Tomorrow," I said, quietly, to the room that did not know me. "Tomorrow I will know more than today. I won't let anyone see what I don't know. I will ask questions in a way that sounds normal. I will find out who I was supposed to be, and I will decide who I'm going to be now."
I closed my eyes. I did not pray. I did not know who to pray to. I listened to the hum, the pipe ticks, the faraway street, and the small constant sound of the device near the plant. It made the same hush again and again. It did not care who I was. That helped.
I slept for an hour, then woke, then slept again. When I woke the second time, I thought I heard a voice in the hallway outside the flat, low and steady, saying something I couldn't make out, and then another voice answering with one word. The words were too soft and too far to understand. I stayed where I was and did not move until the building settled again. I did not go to the door. I did not look through any peephole. I held still.
Before sleep came back, I spoke a final note into the phone so I would not forget the plan. "Do not reveal anything. Learn quietly. Be careful with the door. Check deliveries. Ask the admin contact about access lists. Collect facts before trusting feelings."
The phone screen dimmed. The room kept breathing. I fell asleep with my hands flat on the blanket and my braid under my ear, with the thought that I had read many stories where the main character wakes in a new life and immediately understands the rules. I did not understand the rules. I only understood that I was alive, that this body was a stranger and mine at the same time, and that if I wanted to keep both truths together long enough to decide what to do next, I would have to be quiet, patient, and very, very hard to fool.