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  (Dies Lunae, Ianuarius 13, 2099. A week ago.)

  The silence was deafening.

  I couldn't help but notice the darkness.

  When I was supposed to—wait, what was it even?

  Hold on, it can't be…

  Where am I?

  I slowly but surely opened my eyes, muttering those pointless words almost simultaneously.

  I looked at the ceiling… then soon after, the surroundings.

  What the…

  Wait, am I lost?

  There were a lot of things with complicated designs, yet without any personality nor colors, scattered across the bedroom.

  White. A blank slate.

  Too plain. Too lacklustre.

  As if any trace of a Spirit's character had been erased.

  Or rather—there was nothing distinct about this bedroom at all, apart from the oddly shaped white furniture.

  There were no edges, only smooth, rounded curves.

  And all of it blended into the room.

  Followed by white, plain walls enclosing everything.

  Although… apparently, this wasn't the end of the strangeness.

  I felt something heavy pressing against my chest.

  A blanket? Maybe.

  But if it were, I wouldn't feel quite attached to it.

  Yet there seemed to be a pair—

  Hold on.

  No, let me make sure.

  I pressed them.

  My hands moved very carefully, almost calculated…

  Eh?

  Soft. Smooth. Perky.

  With something pointy on top.

  They stiffened slightly when touched.

  Okay… that couldn't be—

  No. Let me rephrase.

  Loud and clear.

  NO WAY.

  THIS IS NOT FUNNY.

  Okay. Calm down.

  What's next? Jumping out of the bed like an average fool?

  Doing exactly what Silvia would do?

  I screamed.

  It was loud.

  And strangely feminine.

  Like a squirrel screeching in pain.

  Okay. No time to mess around.

  What happened last night?

  Wasn't I sleeping under the Kabbalah Tree with Silvia?

  No—more importantly…

  Was that even last night at all?

  My first instinct was to look for a clock.

  I searched for one.

  Nothing.

  "Argh! Where is it?"

  I muttered, already getting used to this voice—ignoring the fact that I had apparently turned into a girl.

  "Mirielle?"

  I shrieked and jumped away from the bed.

  "Who was that? Who is Mirielle?"

  "Yes. Mirielle Fatui Aveline."

  "You."

  My eyes widened, lids lifting involuntarily.

  I immediately searched for the source of the voice.

  Under the bed?

  No, that's impossible.

  A Spirit would collapse under pressure hiding like that.

  I gathered my courage and pulled the pillow away.

  Buttons.

  Embedded beneath the bed.

  "Hey, Mirielle."

  The voice greeted me calmly.

  Its body looked… attached to the bedroom, as if intentionally designed to mold into it.

  Anyway—who is Mirielle?

  Me?

  That wasn't my name—was it?

  Never in my entire life had I heard such a name.

  Not even among Spirits.

  "W-who are you?"

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  I scrambled backward, nearly falling, ending up sitting on the floor in a panic.

  I stammered.

  And for the first time in my existence as a Spirit, I felt myself crumble under pressure.

  Or was it fear?

  Or was it—

  Wait.

  If something speaks, doesn't that make it a being?

  A creature?

  …Never mind. I was overthinking again.

  "Mirielle, are you an idiot?"

  That mocking tone—

  Eerily familiar.

  "…Silvia?"

  The door slammed shut.

  "Idiot."

  She stood there.

  But she looked different.

  A Spirit isn't supposed to look like that.

  Spirits are translucent—crystalline—structured to contain the soul.

  Like mirrored glass.

  But she—with a golden-alike hair and semi-muscular frame—looked authentic.

  "Silvia?"

  She pointed at herself in disbelief.

  "Huh. Silvia? Who's Silvia again?"

  Then she sighed.

  "Are you getting hungover again after drinking?"

  She put her hand to her face, facepalming, then was leaving me behind.

  No—could have been.

  "Wait." I blurted before she could go.

  Silvia froze, hand on the doorframe. That pause—slow, deliberate—like she was waiting for the next command.

  "…What now?" she said.

  My voice came out thin. "If you're gonna act like you know me, tell me your name."

  She blinked. Real slow. Like a program buffering.

  "You don't remember?" she asked, like it was obvious.

  "I remember nothing." I snapped.

  "Let's start from here."

  She looked at me—really looked in oblivion—like she was reading the angles of my face, the way I slouched, the tension in my fingers.

  Then she sighed. Long and soft. "Elisa."

  I waited. She didn't say the rest.

  "Full name," I pressed.

  "Ugh..."

  She frowned, like she'd lost a line in a menu.

  "…Elisa Arlene Lewynne," she finished, almost bored.

  "Happy?"

  The name landed weird in my head.

  Too formal.

  Too clean.

  Like a stamp.

  "Elisa," I muttered. Felt wrong in my mouth. Empty.

  She watched me. No surprise. No memory spark in my chest. Nothing.

  "You've said my name enough," I said.

  "I at least deserve yours."

  Her mouth twitched. "That's new," she said. "You asking."

  She straightened then—snapped back into place.

  "You never used to care about names before," Elisa—Silvia?—said.

  "Not very you at all."

  Used to. Not very you.

  Those phrases stabbed my chest.

  My hands clenched the sheet.

  "So what do I call you now?" I asked, because asking felt like holding onto something.

  "Elisa is fine." She shrugged. "You don't need the rest."

  "Why?"

  "Because it doesn't matter," she said plain.

  I looked at her. Really looked. The way she stood too still. The way she breathed like a metronome. The way her eyes slid over things and never blinked on the important bits.

  "It matters to me," I said.

  She paused. Not confusion. Not calculation. For a second, something like recognition—small, almost human—flew across her face. "Then Elisa," she said softer.

  She moved toward the door. Paused. Turned slightly without facing me. "Mirielle?"

  I tensed.

  "Yes?"

  Her voice dropped a touch.

  "If you start remembering things that aren't yours—tell me. First."

  The door shut.

  Left me with the name ringing in the air.

  Elisa Arlene Lewynne.

  Too tidy. Too whole.

  Like nobody had ever used it the way people use names—soft, sloppy, worn.

  I pressed my palm to my face and gave a short laugh.

  Great. I woke up as Mirielle Fatui Aveline in a new world that wants me to be her—and the first person I meet gives me a name like it's some kind of label.

  "Well... this is gonna be fun."

  I muttered to myself, chuckling like never before.

  Perhaps that "Daniel" no longer was—begone.