I woke because the room went quiet. The rain had stopped. Without the tapping at the window I could hear the other things better—the fridge motor starting with a small click, water shifting in a pipe somewhere above, and the faint vibration through the floor when a bus rolled past the end of the street. I checked for the stone in my chest the way you check for a bruise with your mind before you touch it. It was still there. It didn't hurt so much as declare itself. I adjusted my breathing around it—four in, six out—and waited until the edges of the room felt firm.
My braid had worked loose in sleep. I pulled it forward and retied it by feel, tighter this time. My hair is long and dark brown and heavier than the hair I remember having in the life that sits behind a closed door in my head. In that other life, I wore my hair short and black, cut for speed and tied back with a plain band. I can't tell you where I worked or what I studied, but I know I didn't have hair falling to my chest. I know I liked quick showers and not having to search for a brush.
I pressed a finger lightly to each eye. When I opened them, the same blur returned. The window was a bright rectangle and the wardrobe was a dark one and everything else was a negotiated guess. That wasn't new. I stood and steadied myself with a hand on the wall until the small tide of dizziness went out.
"New note," I said to the phone, holding it close so the brightness wouldn't flood my eyes.
The assistant chimed.
"Today I need to fix simple facts," I said. "The year, the city, the kind of world this is. I know that sounds dramatic, but I read a lot of transmigration stories in my old life, and in those someone always wakes in a place with magic or powers or a sect hidden behind a shopfront. I don't think that's where I am, but I'll breathe better if I settle it. I also need to confirm the delivery window, make a list of what's being monitored in this flat, and collect dates with proof so I can stop feeling like all of this is a trick."
I saved it. I made the bed because starting with a finished surface helps when the rest of the day is guesswork. In the bathroom I rinsed my face, checked the notch in my left eyebrow, and tied the braid again because routine makes my hands behave. I dressed in the same soft cotton top and drawstring trousers. The clothes in this wardrobe are practical, mostly plain, and they fit. I'm grateful and suspicious at the same time.
I boiled the kettle and put bread in the toaster. While the water heated I asked, "What is the date today?" and listened to the assistant read it. I repeated the year out loud, not because I didn't believe the phone but because saying it marks a thing. I asked for the time and the city and got both. Then, because I want more than one source for anything that matters, I turned on the television and stood close enough to say, "Read the on-screen text," and let the assistant speak the morning news masthead with the date, the weather banner with the date, and a smaller timestamp in the corner. I opened the calendar app and had it read the current month and the day number. Four sources saying the same thing. I wrote the date on my notepad and underlined it twice.
I ate the toast and drank tea and spoke to myself to keep my thoughts in straight lines. "All right. Modern year, modern city, normal calendar, normal news. If this were a magic world the headlines would shout about it or hide it badly. They don't. That means my problems are ordinary human ones unless proven otherwise."
I brought the stack of papers from the desk to the kitchen table and split them into three piles by touch: thin letters, glossy leaflets, thicker forms. I used the phone camera and the read-aloud tool. Bank statements first. I wrote down the dates I heard. They matched the year the TV had told me. I circled a regular payment to the clinic group and drew a line to a regular debit from a foundation. I didn't know what the foundation was yet. I underlined it to ask later. I found an envelope with a delivery receipt inside; the date was two nights ago. I found a supermarket till receipt at the very back of the drawer under the desk; it said last month. I put it in a small pile labeled proof. Facts are easier when there's a pile.
The medicine box in the cupboard above the fridge had a printed sheet with doses and times. The names meant nothing to me, but the schedule was clear when the assistant read it—morning, late afternoon, night. I set alarms for each and added a second alarm five minutes earlier so I wouldn't jump when the first one rang. I said out loud, "I am taking this because my heart behaves better when I do, and I am taking this because it dulls pain enough to let me make lists." Saying reasons helps me feel like I'm deciding even when I'm only following.
I called the pharmacy again because I wanted to hear a different person confirm the change. I practiced the sentence once under my breath so I wouldn't sound like someone who had just fallen into a life mid-stride. When the call connected I said, "Hello, this is Mira. I called earlier about the delivery window. Could you please confirm the evening preference has been removed and that Friday afternoon is the plan."
A different woman answered this time. "Yes, Miss Mira, I see the note. Friday afternoon, and the evening option removed on your request. Last delivery was on Friday—standard items. Your next is scheduled for this week."
"Thank you," I said. "One more question. The monitor device in my sitting room—do you see its service listed under my name, or is that a separate contractor."
"It shows as a partner service, but it's linked to your address under the clinic plan," she said. "If you need a replacement or a visit we can flag it, but usually the clinic coordinates."
"That's fine," I said. "I just wanted to make sure I understood who to call if it starts blinking red or sings opera. It's blinking green right now."
She laughed. "Green is good."
We ended the call politely. I added "monitor linked through clinic plan" to the list and drew a small arrow to "foundation." Those two lines sat comfortably together in a way I did not like.
I put on the off-white cardigan from the wardrobe because I wanted sleeves. I tied the braid tighter again because when it loosens I feel like the day is loosening with it. I opened the door and stepped onto the path to breathe. The air smelled like wet stone and leaves. The hedge to the left held drops that would fall on my shoulder if I brushed it. I stood with one hand on the railing and let my eyes rest.
"Good morning!" a woman called, close enough to make me jump. A step scraped, then stopped at my gate. "I'm your next-door neighbor. We've seen each other in passing, but you hardly step outside unless you're off somewhere, so I thought I'd introduce myself properly instead of shouting hello at your back all year."
I turned toward the voice. Warm, confident, local. I could hear the smile when she spoke, and I could hear the way she watched without being rude. "Good morning," I said. "I'm… Mira." Saying it in public felt like putting a foot on a stair I couldn't see.
She said her name then, clear and friendly, and the moment she said it I held it in my head like something that could be dropped and shatter. Nora. I repeated it silently to fix it. That was how I knew—she told me herself because this body didn't spend much time chatting on the step, and she'd decided that today was the day to make it easy.
"You all right?" Nora asked. "You look steadier today than last week. I'm usually the one carrying bags, which is how I know when people are having a spell, because I offer to carry theirs and they let me if they're sensible."
"I'm trying to make a routine," I said, and because I have to speak in long sentences to sound like a person with a plan, I added, "I'm practicing the steps and the gate and how long it takes to walk to the corner and back, because if I practice now when there's no hurry, I won't make a fool of myself later when I am trying to catch the bus or answer a delivery."
"Practical," she said, approving. "Do you need anything from the shop—milk, fruit, bread? I'm going now. And before you say no, I don't mind at all, and I like an excuse to talk to someone who isn't the checkout scanner."
"Apples would be nice if they have any that won't bruise," I said. "And thank you for introducing yourself. It helps."
"Of course it does," she said, and her keys jingled when she shifted the bag on her arm. "I'll knock when I'm back. And if you hear me shouting later it's at the council, not at you."
She went, and I let my shoulders drop. The air felt warmer after our exchange, and I didn't know if that was because the sun had found a break in the clouds or because the world is always easier when someone says their name without making you earn it.
Inside, the flat felt different by a small degree, the way rooms do after a visitor even if they only stood at the door. I stood by the little device near the plant and watched the green blink. I didn't touch it. I wanted to, to prove I could, but I decided that until I knew what log it kept and who read that log, I would let it be. I wrote "monitor—model? support number?" on the list and circled it.
I opened the tall kitchen cupboard and took down the shoebox I hadn't checked yesterday. Inside were rubber-banded receipts, an old phone case, two loyalty cards, and a small envelope with a postmark. I set the contents on the table and sorted. The supermarket receipts were dated last month and the month before that. The postmark said two weeks ago. One paper from a courier said Delivered 21:44 next to my street name. I separated out anything with a date and made a little fan of proof under my hand. I felt calmer. My life here had a timeline that did not depend on my memory.
At the very bottom of the box was a folded brochure for the clinic. The title was clear enough when I tilted it toward the window. I didn't read the rest. I put it back in the box and wrote "clinic brochure—questions for Ms. Troy" instead, because reading it alone would only make me build stories in my head and I have enough of those already.
I made more tea. I ate a biscuit because it was there and because eating without ceremony reminds your body you plan to keep it running. I walked the length of the flat twice, slow and steady, because lying down too long makes my heart complain. I came back to the table and checked the calendar app again, then the TV masthead again, because repetition is a way I talk my fear down. Same date. Same year. Same ordinary world.
The door knocked mid-morning—two quick taps and then one polite pause. I left the chain on and stood where I could hear well.
"It's just me," Nora called through the door, not too loud but certain. "I brought the apples, and I got the plain biscuits because they go with everything. No pressure to open right this second—tell me where to leave them if you're busy."
"I can open," I said, and I did, keeping the chain because it makes me feel more like a person with boundaries and less like someone blowing in the wind. I took the paper bag from her and thanked her properly.
She looked at me for a second in that way neighbors do when they care enough to keep a mental list—how you stand, how you hold a bag, whether your color is better than yesterday. "You've got a bit of color today," she said. "It suits you."
"I'm trying to walk to the corner and back once," I said. "I set a timer so I won't talk myself into going further and making a mess of it."
"That's exactly how to do it," she said. "And listen, I don't want to make a fuss, but if you ever need me to come with you for a longer walk or a doctor thing, say it plain. I'm good at filling awkward silences and I can glare at receptionists."
"Thank you," I said. "I'll remember."
She started to say something else and then stopped like she'd lost the thread. I felt, just for a second, a prickle along my arms like air shifting. It passed. She looked at my face with sudden focus, almost like she'd been surprised, and then the focus broke.
"You all right?" I asked, because that's what you say.
"Fine," she said, but her voice wasn't as casual as before. She blinked, pressed a hand flat to her chest, then laughed once like she was embarrassed by her own reaction. "I think the light caught me funny. Do you ever get that—when the sun slides out and it makes everything brighter for a blink? Made me feel daft."
"I didn't notice," I said, and that was true. My world is the same blur however the light behaves. But her breath had gone a little shallow, and her hand stayed at her chest longer than a joke would require.
She stepped back. "Right, well. I'll be next door. Shout if you need to borrow sugar or a sense of proportion."
"I'll start with sugar," I said. "The other one I'll try to grow myself."
Her laugh sounded real again. When the door closed I leaned against it for a minute and listened to the quiet. I don't know what she saw, if she saw anything. I know only that she was not a woman who startles easily, and she startled, and it had something to do with me standing in the doorway with my braid over my shoulder and my cardigan sleeves pushed up. I wrote "Nora startled—light?" on the list and put a question mark after it that took up more space than the words.
The afternoon moved like a list. I set timers and took the tablets with water and ate soup from a can and stood at the window to practice recognizing the shapes of people I couldn't see well—taller, shorter, fast walker, slow walker, someone with a dog, someone with a bag. I said out loud, "You are in an ordinary place with ordinary people and a handful of details that feel wrong because you don't have the missing steps." Then I said, "But keep a corner of your eye—if you had one that worked—on the wrong details anyway."
I checked my notes from yesterday and added small answers. Bins day—Wednesday, according to Nora's last complaint. Eclipse—I asked the phone for the date again and wrote it cleanly and circled it, not because I believe the moon will do anything to me but because people do strange things when there is an event and I like to know when those days are coming. Foundation name—not yet; that will be a real phone call when I am ready to ask what right they have to make decisions in my file.
At three I tried to nap and failed. At four I walked to the corner and stood there for fifteen seconds and came back at an ordinary pace like I promised myself. A white van slowed near the opposite curb to look at house numbers and then moved on. I wrote van—other side—did not stop with the time next to it. I know it sounds like I am making a case for no one, but the act of writing is how I prove to myself that I am not ignoring the world and hoping it will be kind.
The evening news came on. I turned the volume up two clicks. The anchor spoke in his formal voice and read the update about the dead doctor. A name now. Not Harland. Another from the same group. He said the police were looking at "associated irregularities" and that there would be more inspections of the private clinics in the coming weeks. He said a separate spokesperson for the group offered condolences and cooperation. He moved to another story. I let the sound die in the room and wrote the doctor's name on my paper even though it meant nothing to me yet.
I stood at the sink and washed the bowl and the spoon and the knife I had used on an apple. I dried them and put them where they belonged because having places for things calms me. I walked to the door and checked the lock and the chain even though I had checked them already. I turned the TV down to a low voice because a low voice at night feels like company that doesn't ask questions.
Before I went to bed I opened the desk drawer and took out the small stack of proof—the supermarket receipt with last month's date, the courier slip with 21:44 two nights ago, the bank statement showing a debit on the first of this month, the clinic letter with last week's day, the calendar app screenshot I made that morning. I placed them in a clear plastic sleeve I found in the bottom drawer. I labeled it Today I know and put it on top of the notepad. It's a trick I learned from reading about people who keep their minds when the world wants to take them apart—when you can't remember, keep something that can.
I turned off the overhead light and left the lamp on. I took my braid out and combed my hair with my fingers and braided it again because I don't like sleeping with loose hair across my face. I moved the cardigan to the chair where my hand will find it without thinking in the morning. I slid into bed and pulled the blanket up. The stone in my chest settled into its usual place. I held the phone and spoke one more note.
"Today I confirmed the year, the city, the ordinary rules," I said. "I also confirmed that ordinary rules sit next to strange details—someone changed my delivery time without asking, a monitor blinks green at me from the corner, a neighbor had a moment of alarm when she looked straight at me and then she told herself it was the light. A second doctor is dead. The clinic says nothing. I am going to keep acting like everything is plain until I have to act like it isn't."
I turned the phone face down and listened. The building made the same small sounds—water somewhere, a chair upstairs, a door at the far end of the hall. I thought about the books I used to read at night, the ones that kept me up because the main character woke in a body that wasn't theirs and spent the first chapter telling themselves to be calm while their heart tried to kick its way out. I thought about how they always got a guide or a system or a sudden packet of memories. I don't have a guide. I don't have a system. I don't have memories. I have a list and a neighbor and a blinking green light and the sense that if I stay very, very careful, I can keep these pieces together long enough to decide who I am in this body and what I will do with the days that belong to it now.
I slept for an hour, woke to a soft scuff in the hall, stayed still until it passed, then slept again. In the thin place between sleep and the morning I heard the bell from my dream again—metal on metal, steady and far—and I told it I would come back when I had finished my list.
When morning returned, the date on the TV still matched the date in the calendar, the apples were on the counter, the proof sleeve was where I left it, and the questions were waiting in the order I had given them.