The next day passed in a slow haze of warmth and exhaustion—two sensations my body didn't quite know how to accept. I drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes waking to the soft clatter of a spoon against a bowl, sometimes to the creak of floorboards as the old woman shuffled toward me.
Every time I blinked awake, she was there.
With broth.
With blankets.
With the smell of herbs simmering over the stove.
With a face that reminded me of something I'd long buried.
My mother.
It was in the little things.
The gentle way Bertha lifted my head to spoon warm broth into my mouth.
The way she hummed under her breath—tuneless but comforting.
The warm press of her hand against my forehead to check my temperature.
Memories crawled out of the cold corners of my mind—unwanted but unstoppable.
My mother smoothing my hair back after a nightmare.
My father lifting me onto his shoulders before the fog worsened.
The three of us huddled over a tiny flame, laughing at something I couldn't remember now.
Everything had been warm back then.
Before the fog became a prison.
Before the kingdom crumbled.
Before I became something I never wanted to be.
"Child?" Bertha's soft voice pulled me from the memory. She stood beside my bed, leaning on her cane. "Soup's cooled enough. Come now, sit up for me."
I hesitated—it felt wrong to let someone feed me. Queens don't get fed.
But I wasn't a queen here.
I was just a half-drowned stray on someone's rug.
I pushed myself upright, wincing as my spine protested. Bertha slipped another blanket behind me, her hands surprisingly steady despite their tremble.
"That's it," she murmured. "Slow breaths. The sea takes more out of a person than they realize."
She lifted the spoon and held it to my lips.
And like the day before, I accepted it.
The broth was salty and warm, with chunks of potato so soft they nearly melted on my tongue. Every swallow lit a small fire in my chest.
"Good girl," Bertha hummed, wiping a stray drip from my chin with the corner of her sleeve. "You'll be up and moving in no time. I've seen shipwreck survivors before—though not for many years. They always come back to themselves eventually."
Shipwreck.
There was that word again.
I didn't correct her. I didn't dare.
As the hours slid by, she visited again and again, sometimes with soup, sometimes with water, sometimes only to ask how I was feeling or fluff the cushions at my back. Each time she did, something inside me loosened—something I hadn't realized was wound tight.
By evening, I was sitting upright without wobbling.
Bertha settled into a chair beside me, folding her hands over her cane.
"Well then," she said, studying me with her pale, drooping eyes, "I suppose it's time I know whose couch I've been rescuing."
I blinked. "Whose…?"
"Your name, dear." She smiled. "It's only fair."
My heart jolted.
My name.
A name I hadn't heard in years.
A name no one alive probably remembered.
A name I wasn't sure belonged to me anymore.
Queen.
My Queen.
Your Majesty.
Those weren't names.
They were shackles.
If I told her who I really was…
she wouldn't believe me.
Or worse—she would.
And then what?
I'd be a curiosity. A freak. A warning story. A foreign queen from a kingdom no one believed existed.
No.
Names were dangerous.
Truth even more so.
"I…"
I hesitated, lowering my gaze. "I can't remember."
Bertha's expression softened instantly.
"Oh, sweetheart…"
She reached forward and brushed my hair from my face with gnarly fingers, her touch infinitely gentle.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you."
Her misunderstanding was a blessing I wasn't going to correct.
"I think," I added quickly, "I lost my memory. After the shipwreck."
Bertha made a soft, pitying noise.
"You poor girl…" She squeezed my hand between both of hers. "It's alright. Truly. You don't have to force anything. Memory returns in its own time—or it doesn't, and new life begins anyway."
I swallowed hard.
New life.
She leaned back, nodding to herself.
"You can stay here as long as you need," she said. "If you can't remember where you belong… well, my home is empty these days. No use letting it be quiet when it could be useful."
My eyes widened. "You'd let me stay?"
"Of course," she huffed, as if insulted. "But there's one condition."
There it is.
I braced myself without realizing it—old habits creeping in. Bargains always had prices. Help always had cost.
"You'll have to help me with my bookstore."
I blinked.
"…Bookstore?"
Her smile warmed.
"Yes. My late husband—bless him—was a strong lad. Carried crates, fixed shelves, kept me from falling off ladders. All that's become a touch difficult without him."
She tapped her cane pointedly.
"I could use a pair of younger hands. If you stay here, you'll help me. Fair enough?"
My chest tightened with an emotion I couldn't name.
Gratitude, maybe.
Or guilt.
"Yes," I said immediately. "I'll help. Anything you need."
Her smile broadened, wrinkling her whole face.
"Good girl."
The next morning, she handed me the uniform.
Uniform might've been an exaggeration. It was simple, clean, and—honestly—strange.
A long-sleeved white collared shirt.
Work pants.
Dress shoes polished to a shine.
The kind of clothes that belonged to a world far brighter than mine.
I held the shirt up between two fingers, squinting at it like it might bite.
"This is… what I have to wear?"
Bertha nodded, beaming. "Every helper I've ever hired wore something like that. Proper and tidy. Makes customers trust you."
"It's…" I started, then shut my mouth.
It was nothing like what I was used to. In Absonditus, "clothes" meant furs, pelts, layers that kept you from freezing to death. Not fine fabric. Not tight collars.
I forced myself into the outfit.
The shirt sleeves swallowed my wrists.
The collar itched.
The pants felt stiff enough to snap if I bent too fast.
The shoes were somehow both too shiny and too uncomfortable.
I stared at myself in the mirror Bertha had set against the wall—
a stranger stared back.
Not a queen.
Not a symbol.
Not a prisoner of fog.
Just… a girl in uncomfortable clothes about to work at a bookstore.
A girl who had escaped her kingdom only to agree to manual labor within forty-eight hours.
I sighed loudly.
Deeply.
Regretfully.
Bertha's voice floated from the hallway.
"Ready, dear?"
I swallowed, tugged at the collar one more time, and muttered:
"I regret this."
But I followed her anyway.
Because for the first time in my life…
I had somewhere to go.