Sleeping under the stars is a nice experience. It's the trifecta of wilderness: a cold, bitter chill; the dim, spotty light; dry air, crisp in your lungs. Many an argument could be made that it's better to sleep outside sometimes, if not for the sake of comfort, then for the pursuit of good health.
She would find it difficult to make such an argument, right now. This couch is amazing.
She doesn't even have the slightest idea whose couch it is. But that doesn't matter, because it's warm, it's soft, it's... well, it's actually a fairly mediocre piece of furniture, quality-wise. An almost decorative couch, it's nicer in appearance than in comfort. But it still, of course, beats cold asphalt behind a dumpster any day.
If she slept, here, she doesn't remember. The last... days? weeks? are foggy, but at least she feels rested now. Like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders.
Inhale, exhale. One after another, cascading.
Peace.
She gets up from the couch and looks around. A small illustration hangs from one wall. In the middle is a quote, in milky-white cursive:
I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.
Its background is a blurred face, greyscale, regal. The painting doesn't quite fit, scratched glass and chipped border out of place on the pristine wall, but it gives the room some character.
The couch below it, across from the one she was sleeping on, looks expensive but unused. In fact, the entire room - the main living space of an apartment, it seems - hardly gives off the feeling of being lived in. It's so clean. It's not even decorated; other than the single painting, the walls are bare, and even the miniature kitchen counter has nothing on it but a generic bowl of fruit.
It doesn't take her too long to decide what to do. She's not sure how she ended up here; maybe someone took her in, maybe she somehow found a place to stay last night (last night?). Maybe the vague memories of pain and cold and emptiness are just... were just dreams, products of a restless sleep.
Regardless, she's starving, and the kitchenette seems to be a perfect solution.
Her stomach grumbling, she dives into the fridge, and -
Well, the fridge isn't that different from the rest of the apartment, unfortunately. It's nice, and so is the kitchen, but clean and hardly used. Only a few eggs are left in a carton; they expired last week, and so did the premade salad, the cheese, and the package of sliced meat. Is ham supposed to smell like that?
Thankfully, there's a quarter loaf of bread in the freezer.
While it's toasting, she goes to open the blinds.
The view is absolutely stunning. A picturesque American city that she hadn't thought could exist. Maybe it's just the angle (or the full night's rest), but there's something beautiful about it, the way the early morning sunlight illuminates shining glass skyscrapers pointing out amidst a sprawling city.
It almost reminds her of a picture she saw once, a place someone had wanted to go -
"Who are you? And what are you doing here?"
Oh. "Uh, hello," she says, turning, "Sorry - I'm not sure why I'm here, either, do I know y-"
Then it hits her. And then she knows, she feels that all-too-familiar dread: she's still sleeping. She's dreaming, because this could never be real, would never happen.
The figure is someone from her dreams. A fragment of a memory, one that had been slipping away every moment she'd been awake. Yet, still just familiar enough that she can recognize the woman, someone who couldn't be here.
She finds the word, after a pause, and blurts it out anyways.
"Mom?"
A quirk of her eyebrow, it's so her. "I don't think so. And I'm going to need an explanation, or I'm calling the cops."
"I- but- you look so much like her." A swallow. Silence, for a moment, and she can feel her heart beating. More memories come back, sluggish. "But you're, she's, dead."
The woman's expression seems to waver between sympathy and amusement. "I feel rather alive, thank you very much. But I am running out of patience."
Patience. Something she's almost forgotten about, taking life as she has recently. It's so easy to just let the world flow around you.
"I'm, I'm..." She thinks. Somehow it's harder to dredge up this information, than her memories of her mother. "I'm Taylor. And I'm not sure why I'm here... I don't remember anything. Anything about how I got here, at least." Bitter cold. Darkness, hiding something. Hunger. Always hungry.
It's quiet, as the woman seems to digest this information, and then: pop. They're both startled, until Taylor realizes the toast is ready.
"I, uh. I made toast. Are you sure you don't know who I am? Or why I'm here?"
"No, why would I - okay." The woman sighs. "Take the toast, and sit down. Let me think for a minute."
She complies. The toast is good - warm, crisp, filled with carbohydrates. Also: edible. She watches as the lady, so similar to her mother, checks something at the door. An alarm of some sort, and it looks new, just like the rest of the apartment. Even from this far away, it seems to shine.
"Okay. I don't know who you are," she says as she returns, sitting down at the table. "But I believe you. You don't look... all right. Why don't you tell me what you remember?"
Cold, tired, aching. "I... I'm not sure. I was outside, but I don't really remember why. And... this man..." Dad? "My father, he, he..."
Had that really been dad?
Waking up in her room - her room? - and her own father not recognizing her, then so soon after, this? It was a nightmare. It had to be.
"I don't know. I don't know what's going on, and it's scary. I keep waking up and not remembering anything. Like, like I've been drugged. And now you, you look so much like my mom did, back when she - is this a dream? I just don't understand."
The lady's mouth morphs into a frown. "That doesn't sound okay. Where do you live?"
Where? It takes her a second to dredge up the location. "Southwest of the Docks."
"The... docks? I don't think we have those, here."
Taylor turns her head, looks out the window again. New skyscrapers, clear sky, but she'd thought it was looking to the West. "Where is this? Where am I?"
"You're in New York."
"New York." No inflection. She sits back. "I can't be in New York. I, I'm from Brockton Bay." Another city, another state.
"That... okay." Now the woman frowns, pensive. "That's quite a ways from here. You don't remember anything at all?" She leans forward, elbows resting on the table. "If you hadn't just appeared out of nowhere in my suite, that sounds like..." A pause. "Well, it doesn't sound good. What's the last day you remember?"
It's hard to look back. She read the paper only a few days ago, it feels like - in the library. But it had been so hard to focus on the words, she hadn't even checked the date. "January... something. Early January. I went back -" to school "...my Winter break ended. Then some stuff happened, but, I don't know how long it's been."
"I see."
She waits, but the woman doesn't say anything more, just glancing at her watch.
"What day is it?"
"February 12." A frown. "You're sure you don't remember anything more, about you got here?"
"I don't think so." Taylor thinks about it for a moment. "I, I can go. I was hoping you would know something, but..."
"No, it's all right. Do you have any money? How were you even thinking of getting home?"
Home. Even if she had the means, would she be able to find it? She couldn't even positively identify her own father.
"...walk, I guess." She feels around in her pocket. Yes, there's money in there. Not a lot. Just enough for a bus pass, or two. Her mother had always told her to keep at least a little cash on her person; this wouldn't do much, but it was something, at least.
"No. Look, you seem exhausted. Why don't you... eat something, I think the television has cable, and when I get back, we'll figure out a way to get you home." She looks at her watch again. "I need to go. I have an important case. Will you be all right?"
Things go by in a blur; Taylor watches as the woman prepares, putting on a well-fitting suit. It's a semi-transformation; she already looked like a kind of professional, but she becomes even more so. Her suitcase is that last thing visible as she rushes out of the room, door slamming shut behind her.
Taylor turns on the television.
It's a political show. She considers changing channels, but she can't think of anything else that would provide more interest. It's easy to zone out to, at least.
"...thoughts about Edward Fleming's recent success in the polls, Marie?"
"Thanks, Bob. Yes, Fleming's been outperforming even the most optimistic of predictions." ... "Statistics mainly show a rise in the polls after the recent debate with Alex Hughes..."
Taylor sits up straight. She recognizes that name, from reading the news the other day. But it wasn't a political piece, because to the author, they weren't a politician - but an insight, a shallow vision into another world.
Another Earth.
She's farther away from home than she'd thought.