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

  A wax seal held it closed; the sender’s emblem. She would have to take it off to read the contents 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 had a razor; but, where did I keep it again? She remembered taking it out of her cuffs. And then what? Where did she keep it? Thankfully, she did not have to look far for it. Once she found the paperclip under the table, on the floor, the razorblade wasn’t far off.

  Already losing your things like this, she thought. I’m not a kid anymore…

  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 inside without it going up into flames first. So she let it go.

  So, what’s next?

  The polaroids. She reeled through the film back and forth, expecting nothing, 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, find the exact building, would it not be an invaluable lead as to uncovering the mystery that was 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 was familiar with from old western fantasies, but more so resembled the mages she often saw depicted in serialized webtoons: which is to say that it looked modern. And 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, maybe?” A gift she had been given or had planned on giving someone?

  She placed it on the letter as a decorative paperweight and thought little of it. She moved on.

  “Now, time for the oddball.”

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

  She hadn’t gotten a good look at it yesterday, but she was right in thinking it a work of art. The ornate engravings 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.

  Again, she found herself asking the same questions she had asked herself yesterday. Why did she have this? Was it even alright that she had it on her? Probably. Unless she happened to be a fugitive, a permit or a license was all she likely needed to prove her right to bear arms, which still posed a problem. I don’t even have my id… She would be fine, if gun-laws in this world were lax enough for a civilian to at least conceal-carry. But only time would tell. She could ask that to someone.

  I should probably not have it on, then, for the time being.

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

  “No, 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 surely get searched. Like a museum, a bank, or a train station.

  Suddenly, she remembered the train ticket; but not where she had kept it. She almost had a heart-attack looking for it; but to her great relief she found it, safe and sound in her wallet. She took it out, held it flush, and read it: “Advanced booked, 1st class. Admission for one: Adult. Boarding time: o-three pm, platform o-seven, 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. A shame, that she hadn’t inquired about the train ticket when she had her chance. Alas—now King’s Crossing would have to wait. The great wall was conspicuous enough. But something told her that she would not get back there by today, even if she tried. “Still, getting back to the trains station should my priority. They might not help if I’m, like, a week late.” And she needed to find her identification papers before then. She might need it when the time came.

  “I should probably write this all down so I don’t forget.” As well as all her other plans and her goals. But where? She had a fountain-pen; but no paper. The newspaper won’t do. It was cramped full of words and the occasional photographs and illustrations. 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.” And so it was decided.

  There was no need to put on her coat or her vest; she would only be going downstairs; not outside. Her fantasy-esk boots almost reached till her knees, yet they effortlessly slipped in when she put them on. The heel was slightly raised, but nothing that would hinder her if she wanted to skip, sprint, jump, or vault over a wall.

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  “Not that I plan on doing any acrobatics.” She smiled at her own remark.

  She almost forgot to lock the door while leaving. Pocketing the key, she headed downstairs. No one was neither to be heard nor seen, except her. Music no longer played in the foyer from the phonograph, and only her footsteps echoed down the hall. When she got to the front-desk, the receptionist, to her 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; 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, she was back up to the fifth floor, in her room, with a fountain-pen in hand, behind her small desk. She tried to write in kanji, but stopped immediately only after a few strokes. No, Kanji’s too conspicuous… She decided to write in romaji instead. That way, if someone asks, then she could say that it was just babble; something she jutted down to practice her handwriting, pass the time. She thought herself a genius for that.

  ‘Short Term’, she wrote. And, on the other side: ‘Long Term’

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

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

  Out there in the world, there was good chance that there were people who knew her; that is, people who knew the previous owner of this body. Sooner or later, she was bound to meet them, if not in the coming weeks, then in a few months, or even years—but meet them she would in time. Did she feel guilty that she had taken over the body of someone’s daughter? It was hard to put into words what she felt. Either way, the possibility of a confrontation with a stranger who knew her was daunting to her. But she could not run away from this or hide. Sooner or later, someone was bound to grow worried, start looking for her, inform the authorities. And then she would get found.

  “No other way, but to go forward.”

  The only thing she could do, then, was to educate herself, about herself, before she was caught off-guard. That, of course, required time. Time which she had plenty of, having fallen here, to lower-Ednin. The city would provide her with her much-needed respite. Thinking about it this way, a blessing in disguise it turned out to be, getting stuck here.

  “And what should I do, if I do get recognized?” Play Dumb, she wrote. Feign Dissociative Fugue. Do not put up an act, even if you meet your biological mother. Lying risked digging herself into a deeper hole. It should not be too hard to act like she did not know them in the first place. She literally didn’t! In time, she would go and meet them. But when that happens,

  “It’ll be on her own terms.”

  So she was hunkering down here for the time being. With the funds she had, staying at Edson Hotel should not pose her an issue, at least for a few months; but that meant little surplus to spoil herself. If she was to have a disposable income, it was imperative that she get her riyals exchanged. But how about getting a job? Why not, if she was to live as Jane Doe?

  Receptionist, was what first came to mind. But did she even know the first thing about book-keeping? “How about a maid? A caretaker?” No. She was not good with kids. Nor did she know how to do laundry. That foreign concept ended at throwing clothes into a washing machine. Wash dishes she could do, but that would roughen her beautiful pale skin. As for cooking: “Hah… 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 at the mere thought of it. Just to try and picture it was enough to make her blush. Still, it was one area of expertise she could ace. The gig was easy money, but a low footprint job was advisable, given her circumstances. “How about a waitress?” She could do that. But would that even pay enough to be worth the hours?

  “Ahh, what a pain in the ass…” How was menial labor out of her reach? No, forget it. The allure of getting a job for her was the experience of working, earning for herself; not monetary. This wasn’t going in short-term. It was going in long-term.

  But imagine, how nice it would’ve been if she had a proper understanding of the miracles of modern society? Her socio-financial position could’ve been as good as guaranteed. Hailed as an era-defining inventor, she could’ve live out her second life out in easy-mode, selling patents, gone the magnate route, become advisors to Kings and Queens, or a ruler herself! were she shrewd enough. She could’ve done that, if this fantasy world was stuck in the dark ages. But in an industrialized society, how different was she, from the common stock? Her otherworldly knowledge were of no help to her here.

  Source of Income, she wrote down, in Long Term; and 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 of this world could’ve very well been the culprit behind her transmigration. If so, then she wanted to pray to Him, or Her, for some answers. “Transmigration came at a price.” Such was a common trope in isekai stories.

  “A big price… Speaking of which,”

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

  Given that the people of Ednin conversed in english and so much of the world had so far resembled a bygone era of her own world, it seemed unlikely that she was the first one here. Were she to look in history books, she suspected, it shouldn’t be hard to find her seniors there, hiding in plain sight, hailed as eminent figures of history, or perhaps even demi-gods!

  “Now, 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 means of a significant other; not through prostitution, not one night stands, and definitely not through herself. “I’ve masturbated enough, for one lifetime.” She had no excuse to continue such behaviors when she had such looks. “Get laid,” she thought out loud, but only meant it humorously. She wasn’t going to write that down. Instead, with an abashed smile she wrote under a new heading: Bucket List: “Fall in love.”

  It’s not lust I want, really. It’s love! To fall in love… “What else… Nothing else… For now.” It was good enough.

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

  “Now, time to go outside.”