Chapter 1: The Wish
The hallway reeks of microwaved curry and burnt coffee.
Third floor. Corporate drone hive.
Two blocks from the river. A hundred miles from anything that feels alive.
I walk past rows of identical cubicles, each filled with hunched forms—people slumped like wilting houseplants. Gray carpet. Gray walls. Pale blue ceiling tiles stained brown in patterns that almost look like clouds. But only if you squint, and dream too hard.
I slip into my chair.
Third row from the elevator. Desk 31B.
No window. No nameplate. Just the usual: a stack of outdated reports, two pens that don't work, and a cracked mug that says Data Girls Do It Better in peeling pink foil.
It's 9:01 a.m.
I'm exactly one minute late.
---
My job? Predict monthly ad responses using statistical models I barely understand. Spreadsheets with more columns than stars. Meetings full of words that loop and vanish. Everyone talks. No one listens.
So I nod. I agree. I quietly correct the errors.
That's what I do.
"Emerald," Janice chirps, peeking over the divider like a meerkat in a cardigan. "Lunch later?"
I smile—careful, polite. "Sure. If I'm not buried."
She laughs. Not real laughter. Just the kind people do when they want to seem friendly but keep their distance.
When she leaves, my smile falls like a dropped mask.
---
The day unspools like a photocopy of a photocopy.
Conference calls. Slack threads.
Someone buys a cake for an intern's birthday. I don't eat any.
"Too sweet," I say.
The truth: I can't handle the small talk.
By sunset, my neck aches and my legs feel numb. I file the reports. Close 27 tabs. Ride the elevator down with a guy who's worked here six months and still doesn't know my name.
He hums to himself.
I pretend I don't exist.
---
Outside, the city exhales.
The streets shine wet from a passing drizzle.
The air smells like pretzels, bus exhaust, and old gum.
Neon lights flicker from nearby bars, where people laugh and clink glasses like they earned something today.
I walk to the subway. Avoid eye contact.
Avoid my reflection in passing windows.
At home, I unlock the door to 450 square feet of rented quiet.
A flickering lamp. Peeling wallpaper. A cactus I haven't watered in weeks.
My sanctuary.
---
I change into a sweatshirt. Curl up on the couch. The radiator hisses like it's judging me.
I don't mind.
I pull a blanket over my legs and reach for the book that's kept me going lately:
Alone Woman Between Hyennas
The cover's absurd—gold filigree, a sword, and a woman in a blood-red gown looking back like she's about to stab a king or marry him.
I love it.
---
I've read it before. Two times? Three?
Comfort food, if comfort came with poison and backstabbing.
The heroine, Rose Virelle, is everything I'm not.
Sharp. Fearless.
Exiled by her family after her father's death. Seducing dukes, princes, warlords. Dragging kingdoms to their knees.
The first time I read her story, I hated her. Too cold. Too perfect.
Now?
I envy her.
She burns. She takes.
She lives.
---
I flip to the dog-eared page.
Rose has just been cast out. Her sister stole her inheritance. Her stepmother arranged her disgrace. The nobles laugh at her as she stands in the rain, soaked and humiliated, about to begin her revenge.
I sigh. Close the book.
> "I wish I could live like that," I whisper.
"Not this. Not this gray, shrunken version of a life."
---
There's a candle on my nightstand. Lavender and cedar. A gift to myself.
I light it.
A habit from my grandmother, Staria.
She used to say fire remembers. That if you whisper to it, it might carry your wish where it needs to go.
"I want more," I whisper to the flame.
"Please. Anything but this."
The flame flickers.
Flares.
I blink.
---
The air changes first.
It thickens. Grows warm and sweet.
The blanket slides away. The couch vanishes. The light bends. Shadows stretch like long fingers.
I feel breathless. Weightless. Like I've stepped through something thin and real and permanent.
Then—
I fall.
---
Not metaphorically.
Truly fall.
Wind screams in my ears.
Stars shoot past like sparks from a forge.
Darkness swallows everything.
Then a voice. Familiar. Warm as firelight.
> "My dear granddaughter… I grant your wish.
From this night forward, whatever book you read before sleep…
You will dream it.
Not watch it. Live it.
To return? You must finish the story…
Or perish within it."
---
I hit stone.
Hard. Cold. Unforgiving.
I groan, dazed, and push myself upright.
The air smells old. Earthy. Smoke, ash, manure, yeast, leather, horses.
A weak morning sun breaks through heavy clouds. Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith hammers metal. Dogs bark. Bells toll.
Around me: a city.
But not mine.
Stone buildings. Wood-shuttered shops. Signs in a language I almost recognize. A carriage rattles past. A boy tosses breadcrumbs to pigeons.
I'm not dreaming.
I'm not in my world.
---
I catch my reflection in a puddle.
At first, I think it's someone else.
Pale skin. High cheekbones. Dark, polished-onyx eyes.
Long hair woven with silver beads. A faint scar over the left brow.
My mouth opens. The girl in the water does the same.
Rose.
I know it instantly.
I am Rose Virelle.
---
Behind me, a carriage thunders past. I leap back—mud splashing across my skirt.
"Watch it!" the driver yells. "Trying to die, girl?"
I open my mouth but say nothing. My voice snags in my throat like it forgot how to speak.
Nearby, a child laughs. "She deaf, or just dumb?"
A woman hauling flour mutters, "Another noble brat thrown out the tower. Bet she thought the street would catch her soft."
I flinch.
Not because they're wrong.
Because they sound so familiar.
Like the voices at work. The looks in the hallway. The smirks after meetings.
You don't belong here.
---
I steady myself against a drainpipe. The stone underfoot is crooked and wet.
Then—
A scent.
Bread. Fresh and warm. Laced with cinnamon.
It tugs at me.
I follow it down a narrow alley.
Two boys bicker over a crust. One notices me. "She's dressed too nice for a beggar."
"I'm not a beggar," I say.
My voice is soft. Too smooth. Not Emerald's. Not quite Rose's either.
They stare.
---
The bakery is small.
Smoke rises from its chimney.
The door is warped. The windows are fogged.
But inside, it smells like home.
A woman's voice rises over the clatter: "Rafa! Burn another tray and I'll tan your hide!"
Laughter.
Flour in the air.
Warmth, real and alive.
I press my palm to the wood.
Maybe this is where Rose's story begins.
Maybe it's where mine changes.
---
I take a breath.
Lift my chin.
> "My name is Rose," I whisper.