Caruncle woke up with a headache. His whole body felt sore and sticky—sweat clung to his skin, seeping into the sheets. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

  "An unfamiliar ceiling." He thought.

  I looked around too. Everything was white. The ceiling, the walls, the floor, the curtains, the bed sheets—white, white, white. The kind of creepy sterile white that made hospitals feel like morgues. An IV drip fed into his left arm, which surprised me. An IV drip? Thank God it wasn’t a nasogastric tube. Still, it was a weird sight.

  His new eyes—because yes, these were new—adjusted quickly to the light coming in through the windows. Outside, the sky was white too. Or maybe gray. Cloudy, dull, and washed out. Morning or afternoon? Impossible to tell.

  He raised his hands and stared at them. Fingers. He had all his fingers again. He flexed them, watching them move like they belonged to someone else. I don’t want to talk about the time he spent without them. I won’t talk about it. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t. But let me tell you: getting your fingers back after losing them is not a feeling that can be put into words. He kept opening and closing his hands, over and over again, like he was afraid they’d vanish if he stopped.

  And I mean… a long while.

  I had to wait for him to snap out of it. When he finally did, he moved on to the rest of his body.

  He touched his face. His nose was different—smaller, with a less pronounced tip. His cheeks, forehead, and chin were unfamiliar. He hesitated, then ran his fingers along his jaw. No stubble. No roughness. Just smooth skin.

  Then came the hair. He grabbed a strand and pulled it in front of his face. Blonde. Messy, slightly greasy, but blonde. It didn’t even reach his shoulders, but it was definitely longer than before.

  His lips? Lips. They were just lips. Maybe softer? He wasn’t sure.

  That left… the rest of him.

  He didn’t sit up. He didn’t check under the sheets. He didn’t confirm what had been done to him. Instead, he hid his hands under the covers and stared at the ceiling, letting his mind go completely blank.

  What’s wrong, Caruncle?

  Why don’t you check? This is what you wanted, right? Come on, tits, pussy, boobs—this is what you signed up for. So why are you acting like a virgin on prom night?

  Coward.

  I know some people are going to ask, "When are you gonna stop calling him a guy?" The answer? Never. Never. I knew what he was from the start. My perception of him hasn’t changed and never will.

  He let his mind wander, drifting somewhere else. This didn’t feel real. None of it had felt real for a long time. Some part of him still believed he’d wake up back in the library, or in his family’s home in Vadorreal. But he never did.

  Meanwhile, my mind was spiraling. A thousand questions, all at once. Where was he going to go? What was he going to do? What happened to his family? What was even happening right now?

  I was losing my grip. Maybe this whole spooky specter thing was finally wearing me down. Maybe my connection to this world was fading. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe I just didn’t understand anything anymore.

  Then, the door opened.

  Custodio and Mortimer entered the room. Mortimer carried a silver tray with a glass of water. Custodio, still wearing that same goddamn trench coat. Did he ever take that dusty thing off?

  “I see you’re finally awake,” Custodio said.

  He glanced at Mortimer, who stepped forward and handed Caruncle the glass of water. Which meant he had to sit up. Slowly, bracing himself against the mattress, Caruncle pushed himself up until his back was against the headboard. He noticed the shift in his chest but ignored it. He took the glass and drank.

  Coward.

  “How long has it been, Mortimer?”

  “I believe three months, sir.”

  “Three months.” Custodio sounded frustrated. “Same as the last one?”

  “Correct, sir. Waking times have all been at least three months after surgery.”

  Custodio sighed. “I see.” Then, turning to Caruncle, he asked, “Now, how do you feel?”

  Caruncle put the empty glass back on the tray and opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

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  His throat clenched. His tongue moved, but no sound followed. He swallowed, tried again—nothing. Panic set in as he glanced between Custodio and Mortimer.

  They were holding back laughter.

  “Pfft—Hahaha!” They both broke at the same time.

  I swear to God, I wanted to punch them both in the throat.

  “I’m sorry,” Custodio chuckled, completely unapologetic. “I just can’t resist—it’s too funny.”

  Caruncle stared, confused. Why was this funny?

  Custodio smirked, lighting a cigar. “Elena has never been able to speak. It’s something I’ve always tried to fix. The first brain transplants were attempts to correct the issue, but it turns out the problem isn’t in the brain—it’s in the throat nerves. Sorry, but that’s outside my area of expertise.”

  Caruncle blinked at him.

  What.

  “She’s going through the shock phase, sir,” Mortimer noted.

  “Yes, have a tranquilizer ready if she goes overboard. We don’t want a repeat of past incidents.”

  Caruncle raised his hands, shaking his head, demanding answers.

  Mortimer gave him a polite, almost pitying nod. “Miss Elena, that body you have is mute. You are mute.”

  Mute.

  Mute?

  For fuck’s sake.

  “I told you to say your last words the other night,” Custodio added, grinning. “I was being serious.”

  Mute.

  Time stretched like a bad joke.

  I breathed in slowly, forcing myself to stay calm.

  Custodio, that bastard, had turned this whole thing into a joke. A sick punchline, and Caruncle was the laughingstock.

  Mute. Fucking mute.

  Caruncle—I can’t talk to people. You can’t talk to people either. I guess we’re not so different after all! Ha.

  I looked at him. Still frozen in shock.

  If I could wrap my hands around that smug bastard’s throat—

  Before I could keep fuming, Mortimer handed Caruncle a small hand mirror.

  “Miss Elena, are you back with us?”

  Caruncle took it and sat up, shifting toward the light from the window. Slowly, carefully, we both looked into the reflection.

  I saw myself.

  “I think she looks quite pleased, sir.”

  “I don’t know,” Custodio mused. “This one looks… absent-minded.”

  “Yes, but notice—no tantrum. She’s just adjusting. Did you finally follow my advice this time?”

  “I wanted to try your proposal before, Mortimer, but finding slaves with these kinds of desires isn’t easy.”

  “Oh! So you did find someone! I suspected this would increase acceptance of the procedure—”

  “Mortimer. Not here.”

  “Right, sir. My apologies.”

  Caruncle—no. Elena.

  She was beautiful.

  Pale, yes, but elegant. Refined.

  Big, almond-shaped eyes, an icy blue. Gentle cheeks that softened into a delicate jawline. A slightly pointed chin.

  I stared at her. At Caruncle. At Elena.

  I had fallen in love.

  Caruncle had turned into a beautiful girl.

  I was happy. Really happy. But—she wasn’t.

  Elena looked afraid. She stared at herself like the reflection might disappear if she looked away.

  I wanted to reach through the glass, take her hand, tell her it was okay—but I couldn’t.

  And that made me sad, too.

  “Alright, that’s enough.”

  Custodio’s voice shattered the moment. Mortimer pulled the mirror away.

  Custodio studied Elena. She stared back at him with wide, unsure eyes—the look of a stray dog that had just been fed by a stranger for the first time.

  “Well,” Custodio said. “I take it you’re satisfied with the results.”

  Elena hesitated. She had agreed to the surgery, but back then, she hadn’t expected to survive.

  She looked down.

  She looked back at Custodio.

  And nodded.

  “Good,” Custodio said. “Then I trust you haven’t forgotten the rest of the agreement.”

  Her stomach twisted.

  “You will be taken care of,” Custodio continued, “and you will begin studying under Mortimer’s guidance. My daughter will be well-educated and well-mannered. That will be your focus from now on.”

  Elena tried to mouth, "Yes, sir," but—**of course—**nothing.

  So she just nodded again.

  “But,” Custodio added, “there’s one more condition I didn’t tell you about.”

  Her chest tightened.

  Her breath hitched.

  I heard the words. I did. But I couldn’t process them.

  Neither could Elena.

  She forced the thought to the back of her mind.

  So did I.

  “Rest for today and tomorrow,” Custodio went on. “Once you recover, your education begins.” He turned to Mortimer. “Make sure all of Elena’s needs are handled. Bring the small whiteboard to her room.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  They both left.

  Elena lay back down, heart pounding.

  What had Custodio said?

  Did it matter?

  Not yet. Not yet.

  All that mattered was the sound of "Miss Elena."

  Miss Elena.

  It sang in her mind. Like birds chirping in the morning. Like wind dancing through trees. Like the blue of the sky before dusk.

  For now—**just for now—**it was enough.

  I thought about her face. The face Caruncle was wearing.

  Outside, the birds sang.

  A cool breeze drifted in through the open window.

  Nothing else mattered.

  Not yet.

  Not yet.

  And we both fell asleep.