She looked at me, and I could sense the fear radiating from her. She sat on the bed, her posture attempting to convey innocence, as if nothing had happened at all. It was disconcerting, the way she seemed to wear a mask of calm amid the chaos surrounding us.
I had a million questions swirling in my mind. Why was she acting like nothing had happend? How could she not feel guilt for what had happened? Did she truly believe this was just a dream, an illusion she could manipulate?
"I'm not Eleanor. My name is Emma," she began, her voice steady yet tinged with a profound sadness. "I'm not from this world; I'm from another world," she continued, her gaze intense and searching. "In my world, I was dying—not dead, but dying. It was painful, and all I did was sleep or read a book, just like here, to escape the pain I was in."
