Back at the inn, the chaos hadn't changed.
A man was still being shoved across a table in the far corner, two others roaring with laughter. Another slammed a mug onto a tray carried by a harassed barmaid. Swear words flew louder than the music. But when Mae reached the bar, the innkeeper looked up—and recognized her.
His face changed, going more neutral, maybe a touch wary. He didn't speak, just stepped away from the counter and gestured for her to follow him upstairs. The wood creaked beneath his feet, the bannister loose enough to shake when she touched it.
"You've got the room for a week," he said without looking at her. "Hot bath water arrives at sunrise. Best you use it then. Breakfast is served downstairs—" he paused, nodding toward a crooked door just off the hallway, a chipped sign above it reading DINING in faded black paint.
Mae followed his eyes. Her stomach gave a nervous twist.
The innkeeper, reading her hesitation, offered a rare kindness. "They don't come in 'til sunset. The drunks, I mean. So mornings'll be quiet."
She nodded.
He unlocked a room near the end of the corridor. The door groaned open.
It was better than nothing… but barely. A single narrow bed sat against the far wall, the straw-stuffed mattress uneven and slumping in the middle. A cracked wardrobe leaned to one side. A tiny hand mirror rested on a stained side table, next to a stool that looked like it would collapse under any real weight. A window was cracked open, letting in a breeze that carried the scent of the nearby stables.
"This is your… VIP room," the innkeeper said flatly, with all the enthusiasm of a man forced to compliment a rat's nest.
Mae glanced around. "Charming," she muttered.
He nodded as if she meant it, then turned back toward the stairs. "Dinner menu's posted. Stew and barley bread. Or pickled beetroot with onion broth, if you've got the stomach for it."
Neither sounded ideal. She opted for the stew—less likely to offend her already churning insides. "Someone will bring you dinner today. You will have to eat outside from tomorrow." he said.
The door clicked shut behind him, and for a long moment Mae just stood there.
Her hands rested on the leather bag now hanging from her shoulder, the pouch of real jewels nestled inside. Her mind buzzed with too many questions. Too many impossibilities. But at least now, she had coins in her pocket, a door that locked, and a roof over her head.
For tonight, that was enough.
Enough to stop running. Enough to sit down and begin to think.
Mae walked toward the bed and sank onto it—only to jolt upright again, instantly scratching at her thighs. The surface beneath her wasn't a mattress by any stretch of the imagination. She pulled back the sheet and let out a groan.
"Straw? Seriously?"
Rough bundles of it, half-split and dusty, were stuffed directly into a wooden bedframe. Bits of it poked out like tiny needles, some already stained with god-knows-what. She stared at it in despair, then glanced around the room until her eyes landed on the stool in the corner. With a sigh of surrender, she dragged it over, perched herself sideways on it, and propped her feet onto the edge of the bed.
Her heels stung the moment they touched the wood.
Bruised. Raw. Red.
She swallowed a lump in her throat, then quietly stood and walked to a small bucket placed under the window. She dipped a finger in—surprisingly, the water was clear. Cold, but clean.
Without a second thought, she reached down to the hem of her long dress, tore off another piece of fabric, and dunked it in the bucket. Back on the stool, she began wiping her feet slowly, wincing with each touch.
Her thoughts spun as her body stilled.
"I'm certain of one thing now… This isn't my timeline."
That truth had carved itself into her like a scar.
"But why am I here? Is this a second life? Did I… die?"
The water dripped steadily as she wrung out the cloth.
"If this is death, it doesn't make sense. Why a palace? Why people who looked like my parents? And why the hell is everything so…" she looked around at the grim little room, "…grimy?"
She rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes, exhausted. "I have no plan. No map. No idea what comes next. I can't just stay in some crumbling kingdom as someone I'm not."
Thud!
A bang echoed against the door, rattling the hinges and sending her heart flying into her throat.
She shot up, clutching the satchel of jewelry to her chest.
Thud! Again—louder, more insistent.
Mae darted behind the door, tucking herself into the narrow shadow. She pressed her back flat, her breath hitching, her fingers curled around the bag like a lifeline. Slowly, she leaned to peek through the narrow gap between the frame and the warped door.
A drunken man staggered through the hallway, banging randomly on doors—laughing to himself and swaying as if the floor shifted with each step. His breath must've smelled like sewage and firewood.
Mae didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Finally, the clomping of his boots faded down the stairs.
Then came another sound. A soft knock—different this time.
The door creaked open an inch before she could stop it.
A young barmaid stood there, balancing a splintered tray. On it, a chipped wooden bowl of stew and what looked like a dark brick masquerading as bread. She had a pretty face, but her eyes—shadowed and envious—never met Mae's for long. She said nothing, just walked away with a flick of her skirt.
Mae set the tray down on the table and glanced inside the bowl. The stew was thick… too thick. Something indiscernible floated at the surface—grayish, soft, slightly hairy.
"I don't think i am built for someone else's cooking i would say."
She picked up the bread, coarse as sandpaper. She turned it in her hand. It felt like it could knock someone out cold if thrown right. The thought of her own bread rushed into her head, the one she would bake with utmost love and savour at weekends when she had the privilege of free time once in a while. She could almost smell its sweet scent.
Her stomach growled. Loud. Relentless.
She sighed, tore off a chunk of the bread—well, tried to. It barely cracked.
She dunked it straight into the stew and waited. A minute passed. Then another. When she finally pulled it out, it had softened just enough to bite.
Barely.
She took a bite, chewed like it was a workout, and swallowed hard.
"How do people live like this?"
She nearly gagged at the flavor, her body stiffening in revolt, but she forced it down. Her mother hadn't raised her to waste food. Even in this broken dream—or curse or illusion or afterlife or whatever this was—she still had rules.
She chewed more. Ate more. Because what else could she do?