Martin struggled to wake up. He was aware someone was saying his name, trying to rouse him. It was hard, like pushing against a heavy weight crushing him down. He managed to open his eyes, and tried to make sense of the situation.

It took a few moments for him to recognize Karin. He was lying on something. A sled? No, a wagon. An old-fashioned horse-drawn wagon. Currently in the middle of the forest, save for an old cottage. Actually, that was being generous. It looked like a one-room hut. The wagon was parked below the stairs leading up to it. It might have been nice at some point; now it was closer to what you'd find in a horror story. The type where the protagonists had no choice but to knock on the door and an ominous dark figure opens the door.

He had a foggy memory of being half-carried to the wagon before falling asleep again. Wow, Karin was a lot stronger than she looked. He wasn’t sure if he had fragments of memories of the trip, or if they were fragments of dreams.

It looked like Karin was trying to tell him something.

"... on your own?"

He shook his head and asked her to repeat herself with a raspy voice.

"I asked if you can stand on your own."

Good question. His body felt incredibly heavy, like after a serious workout session, only with more pain. He made an attempt to get up, but was stopped by Karin.

"I think we'll call that a solid no. Okay, just wait here for a bit."

She walked the steps up to the door and knocked. After half an eternity, the door opened up to reveal an old woman dressed in a brown robe. Well, old and old. Some might accuse him of being old. She looked somewhere between 60 and 70. Almost fit the stereotypical evil witch look from the old fairy tales. If he hadn’t been half dead, he might have wondered if this was a hidden camera scenario.

The two spoke for a bit, but they were too far away for him to catch more than the occasional syllable. Instead he tried to assess the situation. It was light outside. He arrived at Karin’s farm during morning hours. Unless he’d been out for excessively long, it was still the same day. He had to pee. That could wait. Was he hungry? It was hard to tell, the pain from his wound radiated through his stomach, numbing all other feelings.

He desperately wanted to check his cell phone. See what the news wrote about the massacre. Contact his family, tell him he was still alive and kicking. Well, alive for the moment, at least. On the other hand, that might actually be a bad idea. If he bit the bucket soon, igniting a false hope would only hurt them more.

Karin returned down the stairs, radiating concern.

“I have explained your situation to Ms. Redwax, and she might be willing to help you out,” Karin explained, “She wants to speak with you alone first. Let’s see if we can get you on your feet.”

The next minute proved just how bad Martin's condition was. Even leaning hard on Karin, he struggled with each step. Even the smallest amount of movement was agony. He was somehow both cold and sweating. The old woman just stood there watching them. She seemed amused more than anything else.

They finally reached the door, and she allowed him to collapse on what was probably her bed. The interior of the hut was surprisingly cozy. Dried meat hung from the roof. Herbs of all kinds took up all wall space. An old-fashioned oven was lit with fire. There was stuff everywhere, but it seemed to be sorted in some system.

"My, my, you look terrible, son," the old woman mused.

She turned to Karin: "You wait outside. I'll tell you when we are done."

Karin sent a worried look towards him before complying. Ms. Redwax waited until the door was firmly closed behind her.

"So, boy. Listen carefully."

It had been ages since anyone had called him a boy, but he wasn't going to correct her.

"I can help you, but my help isn't free. If you turn down my offer, you’re not going to share anything we speak of here until you die. Which obviously isn’t a very long wait."

She seemed sincere, at least, which hopefully was a good sign.

"Okay." he said between the pain, “Explain.”

"First, it'll cost your life. In your case, I'd say that's pretty cheap, considering you’re half dead already.”

He was about to ask what the point of her help was if he was dead, but she stopped him before he could open his mouth.

“Second, it’ll cost you all your memories. You will retain them, but they will no longer mean anything to you.”

That sounded extremely cryptic.

“Third, it’ll cost you everyone else’s memories of you. Similarly, they won’t mean anything to them.”

She leaned forward towards him.

“If you accept the cost, I’ll provide you … a new life.”

Martin was confused. This was not the moment for them to be playing jokes on him. They didn’t seem to be doing that, though. From what he could tell, she was 100% serious.

“How can a memory not mean anything?” he asked.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The woman sighed, like a teacher having to repeat the same answer a hundred times.

“You will remember things like someone told them to you, not like you experienced them yourself. No emotions attached.”

Still cryptic, but better.

So, this was the choice he had to make? Die, or die and live again? Seemed like a no-brainer to him, for anyone who didn’t wish for death. Not that he actually believed her, but he couldn’t help but hope that maybe...

“Okay,” he said.

“You sure, boy? No take-backs here,” she pressed him.

He nodded. “I don't want to die."

“Oh, you will regardless, but as promised you will get a new life. Now, let’s begin.”

She turned around and picked something up. When she turned around, she had a knife in her hand. He had a bad feeling about this.

“This might sting a bit,” she warned with not even a shred of sympathy. He tried to move as she closed in, but his body was betraying him. The witch hesitated. In fact, she suddenly looked confused.

Martin allowed himself to relax slightly. Maybe he had misunderstood her intentions?

“Ah, you’re unveiled,” the old woman exclaimed, “that makes my job so much easier.”

He was completely stumped as to what she meant, but had no time to ponder about it. She tried to grab a hold of him, missing three times before finding his throat. Before he could formulate another thought, she drove the knife right into his chest.

If he thought he knew pain already, he was sorely mistaken. His chest exploded in fire, and something wet. Blood. He tried to scream, but couldn’t get a single sound out.

She yanked the knife out, and he…

… felt nothing. Why had he expected anything different?

He patted his chest. There was blood there, but no wound. There was something weird going on, but he didn't know what. He looked around.

An old woman was standing over him, looking very gleeful. "So much!" she muttered. "Splendid!"

He connected the name Ms. Redwax with her, but nothing else. Wait, there was something. She had… stabbed him? Wait, that made no sense.

She grinned at him. "Confused, are we, dear? Don't worry, it'll pass. Mostly."

He was definitely confused, no doubt about that. He could tell what had happened, but he couldn’t remember it. Or could he? His mind was a mess right now.

He got to his feet, almost stumbling on his far too large shoes. Kicking them off, he wrangled the bloody sweater off. It was easy enough, being at least three sizes too big for him. Under that, he seemed to be wearing a suit, also too big. It was wrinkled and dirty.

“Time to move again. I guess it doesn’t hurt to reduce my load,” the old woman talked, seemingly not very interested in him for the moment. “You can have this. Don’t worry, I won’t watch.”

She handed him a dress. A plain, off-white, slightly long dress that would be appropriate any other season than the warmest months of summer. Why should he worry about her watching? Another question in an already huge pile of unanswered questions.

He dropped his jacket, pulled off his vest, and undid the buttons on his shirt, revealing his breasts.

Wait, did he have breasts? Well, obviously. Why was he thinking of himself as a ‘he’? Another weird disconnect. She shrugged.

On her lower left, there was a bandage that was half-stuck to her shirt. She peeled the rest of it off and dropped it to the ground. There was a slight tug on her mind, that this bandage had somehow been important, but she couldn't exactly tell why.

Her pants barely hung on. She undid the belt, and stepped out of it. A pair of boxers also fell to the ground. It was a bit chilly being completely naked, so she picked up the dress and struggled with it for several seconds before managing to put it on. It was actually too long, leaving the bottom touching the floor.

Ms. Redwax was busy going through her belongings. She didn’t mind some time alone, so she sat down on a chair and pulled up her legs, hugging them.

She felt a bombardment of thoughts that individually made some semblance of sense, but felt completely disconnected. Like a jigsaw puzzle where she could see all the pieces. Separately, they painted far too small pictures to make any sense. She needed to put them together.

She had … memories? Thoughts? Impressions? Echoes of memories? There was no good word for it. Recollections of events she knew she hadn't experienced. Like remnants of half-remembered dreams. Actually, remnants wasn’t a bad word.

The remnants belonged to a man named Martin. She could with some concentration link a face to the remnants, but she didn’t know him. He had been married, gotten children, divorced, yada yada. She just couldn’t bring herself to care about him.

A part of her knew she should. Rationally, she could tell he was somehow important. But it was like trying to force herself to read something while her mind was trying to escape in self-defense.

What worried her a lot more was that she had no recollection of her own life. Amnesia? Why did everything feel so… weird? New? Different?

No, wait, there was a connection there. She had… been Martin? No, that felt wrong. Been part of him? Inherited something from him?

He was gone now. She knew that for certain. Not only was he gone, it felt like she had watched the most boring biography of his life imaginable. 1/10, would not recommend.

There were parts that should have been exciting, but they were completely devoid of any feeling. Not because the actors had shown no feeling, but because they felt so… fake. Hollow. She had no reason to invest herself in his story.

The disconnect hit her again. She ought to care about him, because she … had no other memories. That, at least, made sense. Until she made her own, those were all she had. Still didn’t make them any less fake.

Wait, if she were just ‘born’, in a way, how was she able to speak? Or do math? She had somehow inherited her skills from him. They used to be his skills, now they were hers. She imagined herself playing the violin. That felt right and wrong at the same time. Maybe she ought to try with an actual violin later.

“Hanging in there, kid?” Ms. Redwax interrupted her musings. “I got so much, I'll give you a freebie gift. Also, you can have these sandals.”

She didn't understand all she said. What was the other gift besides the sandals?

"I'm not following..." she tried.

Ms. Redwax brushed her off. "Don't worry your little pretty head about it. Everything will be fine. Now, isn't it common curtesy to thank your elders?"

There was a hint there of something uncomfortable, perhaps even dangerous, should she keep pressing her luck. It sounded like a bad idea. She apologized and thanked her instead. The sandals didn’t fit perfectly, but were a lot better than nothing.

“Don’t take too long, unless you want poor Karin to freeze to death outside.”

Karin? She didn’t know this Karin, but still recalled a face. While she understood Ms. Redwax wasn't being literal, she couldn't think of a good reason to keep her waiting outside. No one ought to freeze to death, no matter who they were.

“Can’t you invite her in?” she asked. The voice was as unfamiliar as everything else.

“You do it, as soon as you come up with a name,” the old woman replied, calm as could be.

She tried to recall her name, but there was nothing there. It was certainly not Martin, that belonged to someone else. She needed to come up with a new one. Still, something that started with an ‘M’ seemed fitting enough. Maria? Matilda? Monica?...

“Mina,” she replied. “You can call me Mina. I’ll fetch Karin.”