Her eyes opened from a sudden feeling of discomfort. She had no memory of drifting in the void during her sleep. Her attention shifted sharply to her current predicament.
A sensation that's almost familiar yet undoubtedly new, which she had expected to experience the day before—on her first day as a woman—had arrived this morning instead.
Rising to her feet, she pressed both hands against her abdomen in an attempt to ease the strange pain.
Turning around, she scanned the room in search of the loo until she spotted it. Step by slow step, she approached the door, opened it gently, and stepped inside.
She stared and scanned. Inside the small washroom, there was a simple, handmade toilet setup. At the center of the room sat a square, ottoman-like structure made of sturdy wood.
Its top surface was flat except for a round, open hole at the center, wide enough to sit over comfortably. She noticed the edges of the hole were slightly beveled and smoothed out, allowing for easier and more comfortable use.
The wooden seat seemed to have been built for durability, it looked easy to clean, and it was just the right height to squat or sit naturally.
She inspected the toilet structure further, somehow wondering if it was safe for a woman to use.
Peeking further in the toilet, beneath the hole, she noticed a vertical cylindrical shaft extended down into a narrower wooden pipe or chute, guiding waste deeper underground into a natural pit. It wasn't a full plumbing system, but it looks as though it was cleanly constructed to avoid odors or backflow.
A sense of relief washed over her. She didn't realize how much she had taken advantage of the comforts of modern advancements in her second life had.
Turning slowly to take in the rest of the washroom, she familiarized herself with the space. On the left wall hung a rack of towels.
In the corner beside the toilet sat a naturally formed basin — wide enough to resemble a small tub — a shallow depression in the rock that collected water from a slow, trickling spring.
It almost seemed like magic to her eyes that the constant stream of water had never overflowed or flooded her washroom. She thought maybe the excess water runs towards an unseen channel or crack.
As she looked closely at the wall, a narrow groove ran vertically down the stone wall of the washroom, just wide and smooth enough to carry a thin stream of water. This groove wasn't made by tools, it formed naturally over time, shaped by the steady movement of groundwater or rainfall seeping through cracks in the rock from above.
It seemed likely the cabin had been built around this feature, its design accommodating the natural waterflow. By the basin, a simple wooden dipper leaned gently against the wall. She realised how she can use it to scoop and pour water for rinsing or basic cleaning.
She also considered using the trickling water as a drinking source, perhaps boiling it first to kill any lingering bacteria.
The room was well-ventilated and surprisingly clean, with no lingering smell—evidence that it hadn't been used and could be easily maintained. It could have been enchanted for all she knows, or simply built with care.
The welling pain in her abdomen reminded her of why she had rushed to the loo in the first place. She had procrastinated enough. Staring at the minor details and every nook and cranny of the washroom wouldn't make her feel any better.
This is the first time I needed to pee. In this… in MY female body… I don't know how to aim… or do I sit?
Like evacuating? Arghh!.. I just don't know what to expect.
Composing herself as she lifted up her skirt, she sat down gently on the toilet, and allowed herself to be comfortable. All while blushing with her eyes closed.
A quiet rush followed. The wave came and went, leaving a sense of instant relief.
That was easier and more… normal than I thought.
I should wash myself while I'm here. Glad I have towels… I didn't even know just how completely set up this cabin was.
The awkward discomfort in the process of getting to know, and feeling her own skin still lingers. But she knew she needed to take care of her OWN body.
Having lived as a man, she understood she now needed to tend more carefully to her female form—to wash daily, preserve cleanliness, and maintain the natural allure a woman's body possesses.
She undressed herself with care and hung her old maid's dress to the side. Gathering her long hair, she twisted it and tied it in a loose knot, then wrapped it in a dry towel hanging nearby.
Reaching for a smaller rectangular washcloth, she rinsed it in the basin's cool water. It resembled a thick version of cheesecloth—gentle enough not to scratch her porcelain-like skin.
Standing up, she began to wash and scrub her face. Then her ears, neck and nape. Moving on, she gently scrubbed her collar then both arms and armpits.
When it came time to clean her full chest, feeling shy and awkward, she gripped both ends of the washcloth and let its middle section rub across her private areas and down her back.
The friction, the sensation of the towel brushing against her new body, tickled her in strange, unfamiliar ways, but she stayed focused on getting herself clean.
Eventually, she managed to clean and wash herself properly for the first time, without needing to awkwardly dip herself into the basin. It was all new to her.
She had a wife. A son. A grandson. Yet she had never truly learned how to care for a female body until today.
I'll get better over time. This is my body now. I need to respect it… and take care of it properly.
After her bath, she began settling into the cabin; there was no use worrying now about who owned it.
If someone were to return and claim it, she believed she would have learned enough by then to travel with caution, yet without fear, and finally begin her adventure.
She also found herself leaning toward the idea that this cabin had been placed here for her, just as she had come to exist here, all of a sudden.
She noticed a small box tucked beside the wardrobe, almost hidden in its shadow.
Inside was a neat pile of parchment paper, a small bottle of ink sealed with wax, and a couple of well-kept pens.
Someone had left this behind... Perhaps an explorer or a researcher of some sort. But given her circumstances so far, it almost felt as if they had been expecting someone else to begin a new journal.
Maybe my journal?
Her stomach growled at the thought of doing a task so early in the morning.
Since the river was just nearby, she decided it was time to think about food.
Fishing came to mind almost naturally.
She paused—was it instinct? No, memory…
Perhaps, during her second life, she had fished often. Remembering the calm mornings, the quiet pull of the line, the satisfaction of a good catch.
A faint scene returned: teaching her grandson how to reel in an eel, guiding his hands to hold a bow just right for archery.
She chuckled at the thought. Wondering if her memories serve her well, then maybe those moments were real.
Then again, she could have been senile by then, for all she knew.
"Haahh.. Three lives…" she sighed as she whispered.
One that never made it beyond the womb.
Another was a man who lived and died a whole life, complete, though steeped in bitterness.
And now… a third.
Waking up as a woman with greyish-pink hair and a body unfamiliar, yet capable.
Suddenly existing here should have overwhelmed me.
But it didn't.
It felt… right, somehow.
Like I was meant to continue from someone's save point.
She drew in a long, steady breath, letting the crisp, earthy air fill her lungs.
The air was fresh, and as she looked around, she caught sight of a few birds: robins fluttering past her head, herons gliding gracefully in the distance.
Feels good to see clearly again.
Hmmm… Sharp eyes… Haven't had those in a while.
She fashioned a basic rod with what she had lying around, using some twine and a sturdy-looking stick. Carrying the rod in one hand and a soup pot in the other to hold the fish she caught, she followed the river a bit downstream.
While she continued towards the river's downstream, on her peripheral vision, a figure atop a branch seemed to be lurking, but when she turned, there was nothing there.
She dismissed it and continued. The water was clear, flowing gently.
In no time, she had a few fish caught—more than enough for a meal.
Funny enough, the fish here were the same ones she'd known in her old life: tilapia, mudfish, snakehead, and even a few silver perch. She was only fortunate enough to keep the tilapia, as the rest were a struggle to catch or reel in.
All were decent for grilling. She couldn't take advantage of the wooden stove in the cabin by the kitchen just yet. She needs to procure oil and some herbs, and spices.
The sight of the soup pot, filled with her catch, brought a sense of satisfaction as she made her way back to the cabin. The scent of truffles came to mind, prompting a mental note to scour for them early the next day.
On the path toward the clearing, she paused to pluck herbs and spices lining the way: wild garlic, fennel, wild leeks, ginger root, and lemon balm, all gathered with a bit of luck and keen eyes.
Resourcefulness warmed her with pride, turning wilderness into comfort food. With a light skip, she continued back to the cabin.
Rather than using the kitchen, she decided to grill just outside, on a patch of flat earth near the trees. Maybe the smoke would draw attention. Or maybe, deep down, she hoped it would. An eerie feeling had followed her ever since she ventured into these woods.
But despite knowing she's supposed to be on guard, strangely, she welcomed the thought.
The fishing rod she fancied would suffice—rough, but solid. Good enough to serve as a weapon.
The hair on her arms stood. She felt a strange rush of flow coursing through her veins. It's like a current similar to the river she was just at. Continuously flowing, following a certain path.
Maybe I have certain abilities I can use?
She's more than welcome to the thought. A seemingly quiet power, or a potential that can be harnessed. She felt the intensity of it as well as its hollow silence.
Like a still surface of water waiting for a new drop to start a ripple.
She didn't know how to make use of it yet, but it was there.
Waiting. Coiled.