SUNFLOWER

"Ugh..."

Why does my head hurt so much?

As I opened my eyes, I was blinded by light—sunlight, warm and vivid. It poured from above like golden rain, and as my vision slowly adjusted, I found myself lying on soft green grass under a wide, open sky. Surrounding me was an endless plain of swaying fields, wildflowers in full bloom, and a few scattered trees reaching lazily toward the heavens.

A breeze passed through—cool and crisp. I could tell it was afternoon by the sun’s position overhead.

I sat up slowly. No pain. No thirst. No hunger. It was as if I'd been healed during sleep.

But how?
What about the mirror?
The door?
The darkness?
Who am I?

The questions rose like smoke in my chest, choking and thick—but they vanished just as quickly when I noticed movement in the grass nearby.

A rustle.

I froze, instincts kicking in. Predator? Something stalking me?

But then I spotted legs—small, human—hidden in the tall grass. Quietly, I crept forward and pushed past the last curtain of green.

There she was.

A girl, crouched low.

About my age.

Blonde hair tucked under a green helmet. Green eyes. Medium skin. A camo shirt covered in pockets.

She saw me and reacted instantly—her hand darted into one of her pockets and pulled out a knife, eyes filled with suspicion.

I raised my hands in the air.

"I mean no harm."

She studied me. Her eyes didn’t leave mine for several seconds before she spoke, voice low and cautious:

“Who are you?”

We understood each other. That was something.

But what do I say?

I didn’t know my name. I couldn’t even remember my face until the mirror showed it to me. If I made one up, I’d be stuck with it. Still, saying “I don’t know” might make her more suspicious.

I took a risk.

“I’m Lance. And you?”

She hesitated before answering.
“Sunflower.”

“Sunflower?” I echoed, surprised.

She whispered sharply, “Shh! You shouldn’t be here. Be quiet or you’ll scare the food away!”

Food.
She was hunting.

I nodded and followed as she started moving again—crouched, slow, silent. I mirrored her movements. She raised a hand to signal me to stop. I froze.

She moved ahead.

Suddenly, I heard a sharp scream—a shrill, dying cry. I sprang to my feet and rushed to her.

When I reached her, she was holding two chickens, blood gushing from their slit necks, their bodies still twitching. With swift precision, she ended their suffering.

“Damn it,” she muttered, frustrated. “Only two again.”

Then she turned, pointing a bloody finger at me.

“It’s your fault. You wasted my time.”

“My fault?” I snapped. “You’re the one who started asking questions. That wasted your own time.”

Her glare was sharp. “You expect me to just ignore a stranger wandering around?”

We stared each other down, both breathing heavily. But eventually, the tension eased. Arguing was pointless.

She changed the subject.

“Where are you from?”

I hesitated, then tried to weave a lie with truth.

“I don’t remember. I left when I was very young.”

She seemed satisfied—for now.

“Do you have a place to live?”

“Not at the moment,” I answered honestly.

She paused. Then:

“It’s almost dark. You can come to my village. For now.”

I nodded, grateful. But behind her calm offer, something stirred in her eyes.

He doesn’t know his town and picked a fake name. He could be dangerous. I should kill him now—but I don’t have traps, tools, or terrain advantage. His clothes aren’t survival-ready, yet he’s survived. That’s not luck. That’s skill.

I thought he wanted my chickens—but he never tried to take them. So what’s he after? My village? Maybe. If I hadn’t invited him, he might’ve followed me and ambushed the chief. But now… now he’s under watch.

When we get there, I’ll signal the chief. If he’s a threat, we’ll eliminate him.

Her mind raced with suspicion, strategy, and survival.

Lance had no idea the battle she was already preparing.