The first thing I noticed was the ceiling. It was low—pea-green paint peeling at the corners—and plaster cracks snaked toward a stained light fixture. A single bulb flickered twice before settling into a dull hum. My mind floated between two worlds: one where temple spires caught golden sunlight, and another where this ceiling pressed down like a weight. I blinked, tasted stale air, and tried to move my hand. It felt foreign—slender, pale, the fingernails shaped into neat ovals. Panic fluttered under my ribs.
I sat up fast, heart thundering. A wave of dizziness rolled through me, and I steadied myself against a thin mattress that sagged in the middle. My body felt…soft. No lean muscle memory, no calluses from sketching or the faint ache of two years sleeping beside Niran. Every limb carried the lightness of someone who'd never lifted a paintbrush. Instinct drove me to my feet; I stumbled to the side of the bed and reached out for…what?
A full-length mirror leaned against the opposite wall. I flicked on the lamp built into its frame and watched my reflection emerge: long, ash-brown hair falling in straight strands across a narrow face. High cheekbones, full lips, wide-set grey eyes rimmed in dark lashes. My jaw dropped. My reflection blinked back at me with equal shock.
The memory hit me in a pulse: the river pulling me under, cold swallowing my lungs, the world dissolving into rushing darkness. And then—light, womb-quiet, a heartbeat that was not my own. I pressed a trembling palm to the glass. The hand that met mine was slender and warm. I was breathing, but not as Ekan. I exhaled a silent scream.
Behind me, the room stirred: a low groan, the shifting of blankets. I turned to see a woman rising on one elbow, yawning, hair askew like mine. She was small, fragile-looking—a girl. Panic pinned me to the floor. If this was her life, her body, then what had happened to hers? Or had I taken it over? I reached for the edge of the bed, fighting nausea.
She swung her legs over and padded toward me in fuzzy socks. "Mom said get up, Jace," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. She paused at the sight of me crouched on the floor, eyes wide as porcelain. "Uh…who are you?"
My mind raced. Jace. Jade. The two names collided like tectonic plates. "I—I don't know," I whispered, voice thin. Every word felt wrong in my throat. I closed my eyes. I was Ekan. I was Jace. I was a kaleidoscope of memories crashing into one another.
She—Jade—hosted a quick countermove: she tucked hair behind her ear, glanced at her alarm clock—7:42 AM. "Crap, I'm late." She scrambled back onto the bed, nuzzled into pillows. "Just kidding. Mom'll kill me…" Then she yawned again and stretched. "You're creepy, get out."
I scrambled up, brushing my hands on the rough carpet. Every inch of the room felt familiar to her, yet utterly alien to me: cheap floral wallpaper peeling near the baseboard, a battered dresser with chipped white paint, a corkboard pinned with Polaroids of smiling teenage girls in T-shirts and soccer shorts. A half-empty water glass perched next to a stack of overdue bills on a bedside table. The air smelled of vanilla-scented lotion and last night's fast-food grease.
I pivoted back to the mirror. The person staring at me was streaming mascara down one cheek, adjusting to the weirdness of waking to a stranger's life. I touched my face. The skin was warm, fine-textured, and when I spoke again, my voice quavered, "I need—your—name."
"Jade," she said without looking at me. She yanked a sweatshirt from the foot of the bed. "Now scram or I'll call security."
Security? In this ramshackle house? I bit my lip. The gulf between my world and hers yawned impossibly wide. She was a tenant in a boarding home—roommate to three other women, I realized, from the pairs of slippers lined beneath the bed. A half-glimpse through the door showed a narrow hallway bathed in fluorescent glare and doors numbered 2 through 8.
I backed out, turned the doorknob, and froze. A sticky note slapped to the inside of the door read: "Jade T. 8AM SHIFT—don't die on me." Below it, scrawled in fierce block letters: "RENT $350 DUE FRIDAY."
My heart sank. This life depended on earning money. I'd just lost everything: a body, a name, a home. And here I was dropped into a world of overdue rent and shift schedules I had no clue how to navigate.
I stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind me. The corridor's fluorescent lights flickered, and footsteps echoed as another tenant fled down toward the stairwell. I peeked into the next open door—laundry stacked on a folding table, detergent boxes splayed open. The faint hum of a TV leaked from farther down the hall.
I turned, nearly colliding with a woman in a coffee-stained apron, hair tied into a messy bun. She frowned down at me. "You lost?"
"W-work?" I stammered. "I…have to go to work."
She twitched a brow. "Peppercorn Diner. You're already late for your breakfast shift." The word "breakfast" stung—morning hours, before the sun climbed high. "Second stall, front line. Go." She pushed me gently toward the door at the end of the hall.
My legs carried me down three flights of stairs, each step rattling under my weight. Outside, the air hit my face in a punch of cold. A strip mall sprawled in front of me: fluorescent signs for laundromats, dollar-stores, a grimy dry cleaner. Peppercorn Diner glowed with neon—"24/7 Comfort Food," a neon pepper under a cracked glass window.
I swallowed. The world I'd known—Bangkok's warm humidity, Niran's soft voice—felt like a dream. Here, wind whipped across cracked asphalt, horns honked from endless traffic, and the diner door chimed as I pushed it open.
Inside, the diner was a depression-era haze: vinyl booths striped in mustard yellow, Formica counters speckled with years of spilled coffee, a long chrome bar with swiveling stools. The air smelled of bacon grease, bleach, and stale bubblegum. A line of early-morning customers glanced up at me—joggers in windbreakers, a coffee-stained stranger scribbling on a notepad, a weary elderly man nursing his third cup.
The manager, a wiry woman with salt-and-pepper hair and an apron tied too tight, marched out from the kitchen. "Jade, where the hell have you been? Cover that grill before it goes cold." She handed me a grease-spattered pad and shoved me toward the frying station. "Eggs, sausage, pancakes—hurry up."
My fingers hovered over spatulas and warming lamps. I had no idea which griddle was mine. A diner cook barked orders: "Order up! Three bacon hashes, two omelets, one turkey sandwich!" The knives scraped, the grill hissed, bells chimed with each completed plate. I stared at the sizzling pork sausage, tasted the scent of iron in my mouth.
The manager nudged me. "Scramble those eggs—no runny stuff!"
I lifted a spatula, heart in my throat, and prayed the next moment would anchor me. I scooped eggs into the pan. The rubbery curds sizzled. My mind sharpened: hands. Years of sketching meant I could control my fingers. I flipped, stirred, guided the moisture out. The eggs piled into a perfect mound. I reached for hot plates, slid a skillet beneath the grill's exhaust, and scooped sausage links onto the side.
The bell chimed. I slid the plate across the counter. The manager's expression flickered—surprise, then grudging approval. "Not bad," she muttered. "Get coffee orders ready."
I exhaled, a small tremor still trembling through my spine. Every motion felt like a borrowed skill, dredged up from muscle memory I didn't know belonged to me. But I did it. I made breakfast.
Later, during a lull between breakfast rush and lunch prep, I slipped behind the counter. My reflection on the stainless-steel surface showed my grey eyes calm but focused. I unzipped my satchel—inside was the yellow slip of paper from Bangkok, still folded crisp. I pressed it between two pages of the only notebook I owned: a blank journal with thick black covers.
In neat, looping script, I wrote:
"I am not Jade Thompson. I am Ekan Lertsombat. I remember my life in Bangkok, my lover Niran, my family's acceptance. I do not belong here."
The words felt solid beneath my pen. I closed the journal, slid it behind a blank canvas propped against the back wall, and covered it with an old mop. No one here would understand love that crossed borders, the ache of a body lost to river currents, the longing to return.
I pocketed the waitress pad and refocused on the next order. The diner door chimed again, the morning light shifting through dusty windows. Outside, traffic roared. Inside, sizzling grills and clanging dishes anchored me in the only reality I had now.
But I would find a way back. I would recover my life. I would reclaim that warm hand in mine, that promise of tomorrow I thought I lost.
And if I couldn't, I would learn this body's rhythms, navigate its debts and routines, and never stop searching for the golden dawn I left behind.