“Let’s see what we have here,”


    She reached for her satchel and set it down next to 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 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 her cuffs. And then what? Where did I keep it?


    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?


    The film-camera. She reeled through it 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. Too gothic. So, down here? It was hard to say. But if she could find it, find the address of the exact building, and the floor—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 had known 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. 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.


    The ornate engravings painstakingly etched on cold steel looked even more beautiful in the dim morning light. She was right in it being a work of art, even though she hadn’t gotten a good look at it yesterday. 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 on. She set it down on the table, gently, the barrel of it facing the wall, and with her arms-crossed she began to brood.


    Unless she happened to be a fugitive, the only reason she should carry a gun 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 be fine, if it was the latter. But if it was the former—then without a license, a passport, or even an id, she had no way to prove her right to bear arms.


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


    She thought about leaving it in one of the nightstand drawers, 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 failed when she tried to recall where she had kept it. She almost had a heart-attack, but thankfully she found it, safe and sound in her wallet. With a sigh of relief 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, 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. It was regretful that she hadn’t inquired about the train ticket when she had the chance. Now, King’s Crossing would have to wait. The Great Wall was conspicuous enough to find. But something told her that she would not get back up there by today, even if she tried. “Still, it should be my top priority. They might not help if I’m a week late.” And she had to find her identification papers as well during that time, ideally, as she might need it when the time came.


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


    “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 photograph. 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, not outside. Her fantasy-esk boots almost reached 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. “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 corridor, and down the stairs. Only her footsteps echoed throughout. 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 in front of him—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, in her room, with a fountain-pen in hand, at the desk. At first she tried to write in kanji, but stopped after a few strokes. No, kanji looks too conspicuous… She decided to switch to 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, on the other side of the page: “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.


    Out there in the world, there were bound to be people who knew her; that is, people who knew the previous owner of this body. Sooner or later she would meet them: 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 from this or hide. Someone was bound to grow worried and start looking, inform the authorities. 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. This, of course, required time. Thankfully, lower-Ednin would provide her respite. A blessing in disguise, it turned out to be, falling down here. The chances of getting found here were low, unless she happened to be someone very famous and didn’t know it.


    “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. She would only dig herself into a deeper hole. It should not be too hard to act like she did not know them. She literally didn’t. In time, she would 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 here at Edson Hotel for the next few months. But that would leave her with little surplus to enjoy herself, unless she finds a way to get the riyals exchanged. If she was to live as Jane Doe for some time, then it was not a bad idea, to try and take up a few jobs.


    Receptionist, was what first came to mind. But she did not know the first thing about book-keeping. “How about a maid? Or a governess?” No. She’d rather not. She was not good with kids, and she did not know how to do laundry. That foreign concept ended at throwing clothes into the washing machine. Dishes she could do, but that would roughen up her beautiful fingers. 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. Just the thought of it alone 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 strongly advisable. “How about a waitress?” She could do that. But would that even pay enough to be worth spending hours stuck at work?


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


    In times like these, one could not help but wish they had an understanding of modern miracles; her socio-financial status could’ve been as good as guaranteed. Hailed as an era-defining inventor, she could’ve lived her life out in retirement, selling patents. She could’ve done that, if the world were still stuck in the dark ages; saved lives, gained favors of Kings and Queens, or become a ruler herself were she shrewd enough. But in an industrialized society, she was no different from the common-stock. Her otherworldly knowledge were to be of little to no help. Source of Income, she wrote down; 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 comes at a price.” Such was a common trope in isekai stories. She was no stranger to it. But she had to go about it furtively, as she didn’t know how otherworlders were treated in this world.


    “Speaking of which,”


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


    Given the fact that Ednin conversed in english, and so much of the world had so far bore semblance to a bygone era she was familiar with, it seemed unlikely that she was the first one to have travelled here. Were she to look in history books, she was bound to find her senior, hidden in plain sight.


    “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 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. To embarrassing. 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 up an entire page. Work had her invigorated. She did not stumble over ‘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 cleanly-torn in half filled with jargon only she could understand, and the time on the clock at a quarter past six.


    “Time to go outside.”