After finishing the meal, she leaned back against the cold wall, her body still aching, but now warmed from within by the food. Her thoughts, however, were far from settled. She needed answers—anything to shed light on the mystery of her identity and how she had ended up here.
With careful, deliberate movements, she began to feel the fabric of her clothing, hoping for a clue. The coat she wore was thick and heavy, offering some protection against the chill of the bunker. As her fingers traced the material, she realised it was a fine wool, the kind that spoke of quality and purpose. The deep crimson hue, though impossible to see clearly in the darkness, seemed to resonate in her mind, like a colour she had once known well. The coat's stitching was precise, almost elegant, with buttons that felt smooth under her fingertips—perhaps made of bone or polished wood.
Beneath the coat, she could feel the thin camisole against her skin. It was soft and delicate, almost like silk, and it clung to her body in a way that offered little warmth. The hem brushed against her legs, reaching down like a nightgown. A sudden realisation struck her—this was nightwear. Why was she dressed like this? The thought sent a chill down her spine, colder than the air around her.
Had she been taken from her bed? The idea gnawed at her, unsettling and all too plausible. It would explain the nightgown, at least. But as her fingers brushed against the bandage on her head again, another thought intruded, one that didn't fit with the theory of a simple kidnapping. The injury—this sharp, throbbing pain—didn't add up. If she had been taken while sleeping, why was her head wounded? Has there been a struggle? Or something worse?
She couldn't remember. The frustration of it was maddening, the gaps in her memory yawning like a void she couldn't bridge. Yet, the presence of the injury hinted at something more violent, something deliberate. It made no sense, and the lack of answers only deepened her fear.
She pulled the coat tighter around her, the weight of it somehow comforting despite the questions it raised. Whoever had dressed her in these clothes—had they intended to keep her alive, or was it simply part of some twisted game? Her mind raced with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last.
As her fingers continued to explore the pockets of her crimson coat, they brushed against something soft. She hesitated, then slowly pulled it out—a handkerchief. The fabric was delicate, finely woven, and in the dim light, she could just make out the faint outline of an embroidered name in one corner: Euphy.
She stared at the name, her mind racing. Euphy. Was that her name? The word felt familiar, but no memories surfaced to confirm it. It hung in the air, offering a glimmer of identity in the vast emptiness of her mind. But it was just that—a glimmer. There was no certainty, only a fragile connection to something that might not even be real.
She held the handkerchief tightly, as if the name could somehow anchor her to the truth. But doubt gnawed at her. What if this wasn't her name? What if it belonged to someone else—someone important, someone she was supposed to remember? The more she tried to force the memory, the more her head throbbed, the pain making it impossible to think clearly.
Still, Euphy was all she had. It was a small, fragile thread in the vast darkness, but it was something. She folded the handkerchief carefully, slipping it back into her pocket, holding onto it like a lifeline.
Euphy. Whether it was her name or not, it was the only clue she had, and for now, it would have to be enough.