“Let’s see what we have here,”

She reached for her satchel and set it by her legs. Like yesterday, she decided to start with the letter.

The blood-stained letter…

She brought it up to her face and smelled it. Nothing. Her first impulse had reached for blood, but now it seemed childish of her to jump to such conclusions. It could just be red ink. Really, there was no way to tell. Except, maybe, forensic tests…

A wax seal held it closed; the sender’s emblem. She would have to take it off if she wanted to read the content inside; but, would I not void it, if I break the seal? She needed a knife, moreover, to tamper with it in any way. For that she remembered she had a razor; but, where did she keep it again? She remembered taking it out her cuffs. And then what?

Thankfully, she did not have to look far. Once she found the paperclip under the table, the razorblade wasn’t far off.

Seriously, I’m not a kid anymore. I can’t be losing stuff like this.

Carefully, she tried to lift the seal without making a tear.

“Oh?”

Smoke—The letter began to singe where the seal had come loose. This surprised her, as well as piqued her curiosity.

“Best not to tamper with an alchemical seal…”

It seemed there was no way for her to read the contents without it going up into flames first. So, what’s next?

She took out the camera and reeled through the film, until something clicked, when she returned to the first. The wide-shot of the cityscape… She leaned in closer to get a better look at it. Where was it taken from? It did not look like upper-Ednin. So, down here? It was hard to say. But if she could find it, find the address—would it not be an invaluable lead as to uncovering her past? “A lot easier said than done, that said.”

The rest of the shots were impenetrable, revealing nothing whatsoever.

She took out the nutcracker doll and held it in front of her, at arms length. The little mage accoutered in an aristocratic-looking robe did not look like the sagely wizards she knew from old western fantasies, but more so resembled the mages she often saw depicted in serialized webtoons. It wasn’t a toy; or at least she did not think it was one. It was too frail, too artisan, to be one. “A showpiece, perhaps?” A gift she had been given by someone or had planned to give someone?

She placed it on the letter as a decorative paperweight, and thought nothing else of it.

“Now, time for the oddball.”

She had purposely left the more interesting one for last. The revolver.

In her hand she held it—“What a work of art,” she thought out loud. The ornate engravings painstakingly etched on cold steel looked even more beautiful in the dim morning light. Somehow, she managed to open the chamber without firing it; and inside, she saw two empty casings, four live; who knew where or at what it had been fired at.

She gently set it down on the table, the barrel of it facing the wall, and with her arms-crossed began to brood. Unless she turned out to be a fugitive, the only reason she should have a gun on her was because she had a special permit for it, or that gun-laws in this world were lax enough for a civilian to at least conceal-carry. She would have nothing to worry, if it was the latter. But for the former—without a license, a passport, or an id, she had no way to prove her right to bear arms.

“I should probably not have it on me, for the time being…”

She thought about leaving it in the nightstand drawer, but the looming possibility of theft made her reconsider.

“Never mind. Maybe not. What’re the chances I’ll get frisked by a policeman anyways?”

Slim to none, unless she went places where she would get searched. Like a museum, a bank, a prison, or a train station.

Suddenly, she remembered about the train ticket. But not where she had kept it. She almost had a heart-attack looking for it, but thankfully she found it, safe and sound in her wallet. With a sigh of relief she took it out, held it flush in front of her, and read it: “Advanced booked, 1st class. Admission for one: Adult. Boarding time: o-three pm, platform o-seven, at King’s Crossing, for the Aureate Express…”

A fancy name for a train—the Aureate Express; and first-class at that—whoever the young lady was was well-off, or at least her parents were. She regretted not inquiring about the train ticket when she had her chance. Now, King’s Crossing would have to wait. The Great Wall was conspicuous enough. But something told her that she would not get back up there by today, even if she tried. “Still, getting back should be priority. They might not help if I’m a week late.” And she had to find her identification papers as well, which she might need when the time came.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“I should probably write this all down, so I don’t forget.” As well as all her other plans and her goals, long-term and short-term. But where? She had a fountain-pen; but no paper to write on. The newspaper won’t do. It was cramped full of words and the occasional photographs. There was the handkerchief also—a soft and delicate piece of lawn and lace—but nothing would make her deface it.

“The receptionist might have something for me. Let’s go ask him.”

There was no need to put on her coat or her vest; she would only be going downstairs. Her fantasy-esk boots almost reached her knees, yet they effortlessly slipped in when she put them on. The heel of it was slightly raised, but nothing that would hinder her if she wanted to skip, sprint, jump, or vault over a wall. “Not that I plan on doing any acrobatics…”

She did not forget to lock the doors. Pocketing the key, she made her way down the stairs. Only her footsteps echoed. Tap, tap, tap. The corridor, like last night, was empty, and still. Music no longer played from the phonograph in the foyer. When she got to the front-desk, the receptionist, to his surprise, was still there, wakeful and impassive as ever.

“Excuse me,” Satou asked. “Would you have something to write on, like, paper?”

Nothing, but the hotel log-book on the table—the receptionist tore a page from the back of it.

“Ah, you didn’t… Thank you. And, what day is today?” She was told Tuesday.

Not long after that, she was back up to the fifth floor, back in her room, with a fountain-pen in hand.

At first, she tried to write in kanji, but stopped immediately after she made a few strokes. No, kanji looks too conspicuous. She decided to write in romaji instead. That way, if someone asks, she could say that it was just babble, something she did to practice her handwriting, pass the time by. She thought herself a genius for that.

“Short-term.” Then, flipping the page over: “Long-term.”

- Inquire about Train Ticket. Get to King’s Crossing. Time-Sensitive. Asap.

- Find Identification Papers / Passport: Ask around. Look up Missing Person Reports, Newspapers, Agony Columns, etc.

There were bound to be people who knew her; that is, people who knew the previous owner of this body. Meeting them was inevitable: if not in the coming weeks, then in a few months, or even years—but meet them she would in time. The prospect of a confrontation was daunting, but she could not run away or hide. Someone was bound to grow worried, start looking for her, inform the authorities. Then she would get found.

“No other way, but to go forward.”

The only thing she could do, was educate herself, about herself, before she was caught off-guard. This, of course, required time. Thankfully, a big city provided one with anonymity, and lower-Ednin was perfect for those who wanted to start over or not be found. A blessing in disguise, it turned out to be, falling down here. The chances of getting found here was slim.

“But what should I do, if I do get recognized?” Play Dumb, she wrote down. Feign Dissociative Fugue. Do not put up an act, even if you meet your mother. You will only dig yourself a deeper hole. It should not be too hard to act like she did not know them. She literally didn’t. In time, she planned to go and meet them. But when that happens,

“It’ll be on her own terms.”

She was hunkering here, for the time being. With the funds she had, she could live in Edson Hotel for the next few months. But that would leave her with little surplus to enjoy herself. “Exchange riyals,” she wrote down. She had no idea how to go about it. If she was to live as Jane Doe for some time, then it was not a bad idea to try and take a few jobs, just in case.

“Receptionist,” was what first came to mind. But she did not know the first thing about book-keeping. “What about a maid? A governess?” No, she was not good with kids. And she didn’t know how to do laundry. That foreign concept ended at throwing clothes into the washing machine. Dishes she could do, but that would roughen her beautiful fingers. And cooking? “Heh. No one’s hiring me for a cook.” She only knew how to make insta, and bread and omelet.

“I could do modelling, actually.” She blushed. Just the thought of it along had made her blush. Still, it was one area of expertise she could ace. The gig was easy money, but a low footprint job was advisable. “How about a waitress?” She could do that. But would that even pay enough to be worth spending hours stuck at work when there was so much to do?

“Ahh, what a pain in the ass…” How was menial labor out of her reach in the first place?

If only she had an understanding of modern miracles, her socio-financial status could’ve been guaranteed. Hailed as an era-defining inventor, she could’ve sold patents and lived in retirement. She could’ve done that, were the world still stuck in the dark ages—saved lives, gained the favors of Kings and Queens, or become a ruler herself were she shrewd. But in an industrialized society, she was no different from the common-stock. Source of Income, she wrote. Then she moved on.

- Test your Supernatural Abilities. Magic Competency.

Am I special? Can I cast fireballs out of my hands? She did not expect much in this regard.

- Research about History. Geography. Religions. Churches. Gods & Goddesses.

One of the deities could’ve very well been the culprit behind her transmigration. If so, then she had to pray to Him, or Her, for some answers. “Transmigration came at a price.” A common trope in isekai stories. She was no stranger to it.

- Look for Evidence of fellow Otherworlders: Transmigrators, Reincarnator, Summoned, etc.

Given Ednin conversed in english and so much of the world bore semblance to the civilizations she was familiar with, it seemed unlikely she was the first one to arrive here. In the history books and in the news, she was bound to find a senior.

“Now, time for my resolutions.” There were behaviors about herself that she wanted to forego, improve upon.

- Take Care of Yourself: Brush, Diet, Exercise, etc. And, an Absolute Ban on Onanism.

If she had erotic desires, then she would relieve herself by the means of a significant other; not through prostitution, not one night stands, and definitely not by herself. “I’ve masturbated enough for one lifetime.” There was no excuse to continue such behavior when she had such looks. “Get laid,” she thought out loud, but only meant it in humor. She wasn’t going to write that down. Instead, with a smile she wrote under a new heading: Bucket List: “Fall in love.”

“What else… Nothing else… For now…” It was good enough.

The day had just started, and yet she felt as though she had gotten so much done. Inspiration had flowed in rapids, and in a stream of consciousness she had filled an entire page. Work had left her invigorated. She did not stumble over ‘what to do’, like yesterday, and hours had passed by in mere seconds. By the end of the chapter, she was left with a page cleanly-torn half-filled with jargon only she could understand, and the time on the clock at a quarter past six.

“Time to go outside.”