" It's already morning! But I feel like I just go to sleep some moments ago . Was I that much exhausted? Wait..Where am I? It's not my room . It feels different, really different.. Am I still dreaming ? But everything feels so real. Seriously what's wrong with me ! It doesn't look like my old room ."
Every piece of furniture look like it has been whispered into existence by a master craftsman. This isn't just a bedroom; it is a sanctuary of art and ancient wealth. I look up and gasped. The ceiling is a masterpiece of fresco and gold leaf. The ceiling is a masterpiece of fresco and gold leaf. It isn't just painted; it looks like a picture. Everything is polished to a mirror finish. There is no dust, no clutter, and none of the cramped grayness of my house. Here, everything is intentional and beautiful. My bed is so soft that it felt like soft rabbit fur. I scramble out of the vast bed, my feet sinking into the plush rug as I rush toward the far wall. There is a vanity, framed by golden vines and silver filigree. It's crowded with crystal bottles containing swirling, iridescent perfumes and jars of creams .
But I don't look at the luxury. When I lock at the glass and I become frozen. My breath hitch in my throat, coming in short, jagged gasps.
The woman in the mirror isn't the exhausted 25-year-old office worker who has fallen asleep in a cramped apartment. The person staring back is a vision of ethereal perfection.
I scream with wonder , "who is this person? Why is she looking at me? Wait who are you? Are you trapped in this mirror? " I stare at her and observe her, " is it my own reflection? "
My skin, once dull from office lights and lack of sleep, is now luminous, as smooth as fine porcelain. My hair isn't just hanging; it is flowing like a river of silk, catching the light in ways that seem impossible. My eyes are wider, brighter, and hold a depth that feel ancient, rime with lashes so long they cast tiny shadows on my high, elegant cheekbones. I reach out ; my fingers are trembling as they touch the cool surface of the glass. The figure in the mirror does the same.
"This... this isn't me," I whispered, my voice sounding like a silver bell.
I trace the line of my jaw, which is sharp and regal. My lips are a natural, soft crimson, and my posture is straight and commanding, without a trace of the "office slouch" which I had carried for years. I look like I have been sculpted by a master artist who has removed every flaw, every sign of stress, and every worry.
I feel a surge of vertigo. I'm so beautiful it's terrifying. It isn't just a change in clothes or makeup; it is as if my very soul has been polished until it glows. I'm looking like a queen of a forgotten age, a woman means to be worshipped, standing in a body that feels both brand new and perfectly, hauntingly familiar.
I stand paralyzed before the mirror, my heart hammering against my ribs—a steady, powerful beat that felt too strong for the girl I used to be.
I feel a rush of forbidden joy. For the first time in my life, I'm shining like a star . There are no dark circles under my eyes from late-night studying or office stress. I'm a masterpiece. But as I stare into those luminous, alien eyes, the joy turned into a cold, sharp terror.
"Where am I?" I whisper, with a trembling voice "Who is this girl?"
I search the reflection for a single familiar detail. I start looking for the small mole near my eyes, the slight puffiness I usually had in the morning, or the way my hair always tangled at the back. There is nothing .My old self has gone, erased by this new, perfect shell. It's if the 25-year-old office worker has been edited out of existence.
When I'm trying to figure out my situation, a sharp, rhythmic knocking echoed against the heavy oak door. My heart is beating like it will explode at any moment. For a second, I want to hide, but the curiosity is stronger than the fear. I want to know the answers, and these people are my only lead.
I take a deep breath, smoothing the shimmering silk of my nightgown. I force myself to stay clam. "Be normal, I tell myself. "Act like you belong here."
"Come in," I call out. My voice is steady, carrying a natural authority as if I'm possessed.
The door opens silently. A group of young women has entered, dressed in matching uniforms of soft grey and white lace. They keep their heads bow slightly, a sign of deep respect.
"Good morning, My Lady," the girl in the front says softly. "We hope your rest was peaceful. Shall we prepare your bath now? The lavender and rose oils have been warmed."
I watch them closely. My Lady. The title confirm it, "she wasn't just wealthy; she was powerful." I watch how they are moving, they don't even dare to look at my eyes directly. They were like the "maids" she had read about in historical novels and dramas but here, they are breathing and real.
"Yes," I reply , keeping my words short so I don't make a mistake. "That would be fine."
The girls start preparing. One begins to lay out a gown of such intricate embroidery that it looks like it is woven from spiderwebs and starlight. Another begins to arrange crystal jars of oils by a large, sunken marble pool in the corner of the suite.
As they worked, I standd by the window, pretending to look out at the landscape, but my eyes are reflecting in the glass, watching their every move. I feel like a spy in a beautiful body.
If I am 'My Lady,' I think, then there must be a Lord, or maybe I belong to a wealthy family. There must be a reason that I'm here and I must find out that reason.
I allow them to lead me toward the bath. The water is steaming, and the scent is so beautiful it makes my head spin. I decide to play the part. I think that If I act like the person they expect, eventually, they'll say something that will help me to understand about this place and who "she" is .