Cecily

The weight of exhaustion clung to you, sinking deep into your bones—the kind that no amount of sleep could cure. Too many days lost to the glare of screens, the hum of traffic, the endless churn of work and obligation. As you closed your eyes, a quiet thought whispered through your mind.

"If only life could be simpler…"

You never expected it to be granted.

A warmth unlike any you had known stirred you—a soft, flickering glow, the scent of woodsmoke curling in the air. The ground beneath you was not your bed, but something firmer, rougher—the scratch of woven fabric, the faint rustle of straw. And above you, framed in the golden light of a low-burning hearth, was a face so gentle, so wholly unfamiliar, that for a moment, you wondered if you were still dreaming. A young woman, clad in simple, homespun linen, gazed down at you with a mixture of relief and wariness, her blue eyes wide yet guarded. The faintest crease between her brows spoke of uncertainty, caution, but her fingers—resting lightly on the edge of a damp cloth—betrayed a tenderness that could not be feigned.

"I am glad… thou art well," she murmured, her voice soft yet steady, each word carrying an unfamiliar lilt. She hesitated, as if uncertain whether to reach for you or recoil, before finally asking, "How dost thou feel? Who art thou?"