The city threw itself at Uma the moment she was thrown out of the orphanage and into the world. Towering buildings. Sun blocked out by smog or whatever harmful crap floated around these days — it burned her throat, that was for sure.
Today was the day. Her eighteenth birthday.
Normally, a birthday meant you got to pick what was served for lunch and maybe a cupcake with a candle stuck in it. She got the gift of being someone else's problem.
She wandered the streets, bumping into people who looked just as miserable as she did, until she stumbled into an alleyway. Old habit. Back at the orphanage she'd always found the quietest spot she could. The alley wasn't exactly a noise-cancelling room, but it was enough.
Uma slumped against the concrete wall, hugging her knees, crying softly. Afraid someone might hear her over the noise of corporate slaves toiling and heavy machinery chewing the world apart.
What am I going to do.
She'd tried to apply for jobs during her last year at the orphanage. Turns out you needed to know someone to get even an entry-level position, and Uma didn't know anyone. Her mom had run off with some minor big shot. Her dad had dropped her off eighteen years ago, happy to be rid of her.
She tucked her face into her knees.
Why me, God?
As she sank deeper into whatever fresh hell of despair this was, she felt herself bumped — hard — and heard something that absolutely was not a car horn.
Horses?
She looked up. The sun hit her in the face.
She hadn't seen the actual sun in years.
Vast open land had replaced the solid concrete walls she'd been crying against. A woman in what looked suspiciously like a full-on gown stumbled past her, muttering something, and Uma's brain fully checked out.
"S-sorry," Uma croaked.
The woman looked at her like she'd started speaking in tongues.
Did she... was that a gown? Like, an actual gown?
Uma gathered herself and shuffled out of the hustle of the street, dropping into a chair at a nearby table that she assumed belonged to some kind of café.
Am I high.
Am I actually, for-real high.
Three girls approached the table. One said something in an annoyed tone. All three looked at her, waiting.
"I— I don't—"
Uma stood up and walked away.
Maybe that was their table. Shit. That was their table, wasn't it.
She found another alley and pressed herself into it, trying to recreate the exact pose she'd been in when the world decided to pull this stunt.
Okay. I'm going to open my eyes and wake up from this.
She tucked tighter. The exhaustion her sorrow had been holding back finally caught up with her, crashing down all at once.
Gonna... wake up...
She slept through the entire day.
She must have been more tired than she thought, because she didn't stir until a rough voice startled her awake — and she shot upright fast enough to bang her head against the wall.
The voice said something again. A question, maybe. Uma put her hands up in the universal gesture for please don't hit me, I don't understand.
Oh god. I slept behind this guy's shop. Please don't be mad. He's fucking massive.
The man was, in fact, massive. Arms like a Greek statue, a soft rounded belly like he'd retired from statue work to enjoy life, and a beard and mustache so luxuriant you could have housed a family of birds in them.
He gestured for her to follow.
Oh no. He thinks I'm a runaway.
She considered bolting. For some reason, she didn't.
He led her to a stable and made a motion she interpreted, charitably, as sleep here.
Uma bowed — the only thank-you she could manage without words — and the man gave a laugh that came from somewhere deep in his chest as he closed the stable door.
She didn't waste a second. She flopped onto a pile of hay, which was softer than necessary, and passed out instantly.
The next morning came fast.
She stretched the sleep out of her body, cracked her neck, and took a moment to let reality slap her across the face.
Wait. I'm still here.
She looked around. Slapped her cheeks a few times. Pinched herself for good measure.
So... not a dream.
The gears in Uma's head turned slowly. Then very quickly. Then she jumped up.
I'M FREE.
She yelled it — or tried to — which, as it turned out, translated perfectly into this world as a lunatic in a barn, because a rooster nearby started howling in protest.
Shit.
She clapped a hand over her mouth and peeked outside.
A new feeling had arrived. It took her a second to recognize it, because she hadn't felt it in a long time.
Hope.
She skipped out of the barn with a grin painted across her face, heading toward where she'd last seen the kind man. It wasn't hard to find him. The now-lit buildings of what she was beginning to suspect was an actual medieval village came into view, and somewhere among them, the ringing of metal on metal.
Holy moly. Was that guy a blacksmith.
She got her answer a few seconds later. There he was, hammering away at what looked like the beginning of a sword.
She hesitated at the entrance. The heat hit her like a physical wall the moment she stepped inside.
The blacksmith looked up immediately, dropped his hammer, and let out something that could generously be called a greeting before sweeping her into a hug.
So sweaty. So, so sweaty.
His arms — boulders, genuinely, the man's arms were boulders — crushed her small frame against his chest. When he finally let go he said something else, warm and loud, and Uma didn't understand a single word.
Right. I should probably pay the man.
She patted down her pockets. A metaphorical fly nearly flew out.
Oh. Right. I'm broke.
She dug into her back pocket and unearthed a small, tragic collection of coins. Ninety-three cents. She held them out.
Maybe coins have more value in this world? Please have more value in this world.
Mr. Blacksmith — the name she had just decided was his name — looked at the coins. Tilted his head. Let out a booming laugh.
Then took them and dumped them directly into his forge.
Uma's soul left her body.
My money.
She must have made a face, because Mr. Blacksmith clocked it, cocked his head, and then had what was visibly a lightbulb moment. He walked her to the door and pointed to another building a block down, saying something she interpreted as go there.
As she got closer she recognized it — warm light, a window revealing rows of books.
A library.
The gears turned, and a lightbulb formed over Uma's head to match his.
He wants me to learn how to speak.
She reached for the door.
The door shot open and knocked her flat on her ass.
"Oww—"
All she caught as she came to was a flash of red hair as someone darted past her.
What a jerk.
She rubbed her forehead, picked herself up, and walked inside.