The King's Love

Something made me wake up... I feel the cold, damp grass all over my body, and I remain still for a while, trying to understand what happened. The last memory I have is of curling up in my comfortable bed in New York, and now I find myself lying in the middle of a field of sunflowers, surrounded by an unsettling silence.

I take a deep breath, trying to contain the growing panic that threatens to overwhelm me, and slowly stand up. Every movement is marked by a feeling of unreality, as if I'm trapped in a nightmare from which I can't wake up. Sunflowers stretch as far as the eye can see, their golden petals vibrating softly in the light of the setting sun. The sky, painted in shades of orange and pink, is a spectacle of indescribable beauty, but my heart is tight with growing anxiety.

Instinctively, I try to reach for my cell phone in my pocket, searching for some kind of connection with my familiar reality. But my heart freezes when I find nothing but emptiness. Where's my cell phone? Where is my wallet, my keys? Desperation begins to set in, forming a tight lump in my throat.

Where am I? Why am I here? Who brought me to this unknown place? Unanswered questions echo in my mind, as the feeling of being lost and alone intensifies. Amid the field of sunflowers, surrounded by an aura of mystery and restlessness, the only certainty I have is that something extraordinary has happened, something that will forever change the course of my life.

Fear, cold and sharp, seeps into every fiber of my being, fueling my desperate dash through the sunflower field. The damp grass and golden petals seem to blur beneath my feet as I struggle to find any sign of life, any hint of civilization that might help me understand where I am.

As I get closer, the silhouettes of small houses begin to form on the horizon, like mirages amid the golden sea of ​​sunflowers. Hope is reborn in my chest, and I increase my steps, ignoring the burning pain in my lungs and the feeling of dizziness that threatens to knock me over with each step.

Coming down the mountainside like a runaway rocket, my curly hair, normally so well maintained, must now be in a state of complete disarray, tangled and flying in the wind, but that's what matters least at the moment.

As I approach the village, an imposing building captures my attention, making me stop abruptly. A castle. A true castle, rising majestically against the orange sky. My eyes widen in shock and disbelief.

—Where the hell am I? — I mutter to myself, feeling a chill run down my spine.

I stand there, panting and stunned, at the entrance to the small village that now reveals itself before me. Who would have done this to me? Who would have brought me to this mysterious and enchanted place? A prank in extremely bad taste, perhaps? I feel like the protagonist of a distorted fairy tale, lost between reality and fantasy, not knowing which path to take or who to trust.

— This can't be real... — I whisper, trying to assimilate the magnitude of what is happening.

Panting but determined, I take a deep breath and continue my run towards the village. Every step I take seems to take me deeper into a distant and unknown world, a place that could only exist in history books or the epic films I've watched.

The scenery around me is almost surreal. The houses that rise before me have an architecture that evokes images of bygone eras, with sturdy stone walls, thatched roofs, and windows adorned with wooden lattices. Every detail seems carefully designed to transport whoever passes by to a distant and enchanted past.

— It's as if I've stepped into a movie... or a book of fairy tales — I mutter to myself, trying to assimilate the strange reality that surrounds me.

As I enter the village, I notice the surprised and fearful looks of the local inhabitants. A curvy woman quickly covers a child's eyes upon seeing me, as if to protect her from the sight of something unexpected or frightening.

• What is wrong with me? I'm not that terrible, am I? — I ask myself, feeling a mix of curiosity and insecurity.

I then decide to approach a puddle of water that reflects the orange sky, hoping to find some reflection that might give me some clue as to why people are astonished. As I lean over to look at my image in the water, the face that stares back at me is my own, with disheveled curly hair and an expression of perplexity written across it.

— I don't understand... There's nothing different about me — I murmur, feeling even more confused and intrigued.

The looks I receive are like sharp knives, piercing and full of judgment. Every face that turns my way expresses a mix of intrigue, contempt, and confusion. The tension in the air is palpable, and I feel my heart quicken at the hostility implicit in the looks and gestures of the locals.

I try to move forward, looking for a way out or somewhere I can find answers, but I am abruptly stopped by two robust men who appear before me, their spears pointed in my direction as a warning.

• Who are you? — one of them asks, his voice full of suspicion and authority.

Despite the fear that dominates me, a sigh of relief escapes my lips when I realize that they speak my language. This is a sign that maybe I can communicate, maybe I can find a way to explain my situation and get help.

I timidly raise my hands in surrender, trying hard to remain calm as I respond:

— My name is Amélia. I'm from new york. I don't know where I am and I need help getting back to my house.

To my surprise and confusion, the men look at me with even more perplexed expressions, exchanging confused looks with each other before responding:

— We don't know where this New York is. We will call the guards to decide what to do with you.

Looking around, I notice for the first time the outfits everyone is wearing. The women are dressed in long dresses and the men in formal attire reminiscent of those portrayed in period films and books. Even the children are dressed similarly, adding to the scene an atmosphere of unreality and strangeness.

The way they speak to me, so formal and polite, takes me back to the pages of Shakespeare's books that I read years ago, transporting me to a world where language and customs are so distinct and distant from my reality that they seem to belong to a dream. or a historical painting.

The scene before me is so surreal that I feel an irresistible urge to capture it, to paint every detail and frame this unique and disconcerting vision on canvas.

As some villagers rush towards the castle, probably in search of some authority or help, I find myself facing the two burly men, their suspicious gazes still fixed on me. Keeping my hands raised in surrender, I take a few steps back and sit down on a nearby wooden bench, without waiting for any kind of permission.

— If I may, I would like to sit down for a while. I ran a lot until I found you and I'm a little tired — I say, trying to maintain an apparent calm, even though inside my heart is beating wildly.

The men stare at me with expressions of disbelief, but before they can respond, a clear and curious little voice makes itself heard. A child, eyes wide with curiosity, asks:

— Are you a man or a woman?

Surprised and a little disconcerted by the unexpected question, I take a deep breath before answering:

• I'm a woman. Why the question so sudden? — I ask, as I settle down on the wooden bench, trying to ignore the curious and judgmental looks around me.

Before I can continue, the child's mother tries to cover her mouth to prevent her from speaking, but the girl deftly dodges and insists:

— So why do you dress like a man?

The comment takes me by surprise, and my gaze immediately drops to my clothes. I'm dressed in a tank top with a modest neckline, pants and I'm barefoot. It's the outfit I wore last night, before dozing off on the couch while watching television in my comfortable New York home.

— Television... — the word escapes my lips before I can stop it, and for a moment, the idea that this could all be a dream crosses my mind.

Without hesitation, I grab a piece of my skin and squeeze it, hoping to wake up from this surreal nightmare. But, to my dismay, nothing happens. The strange and disconcerting reality around me remains intact, solidifying the feeling that I am truly trapped in an unfamiliar place and time, facing challenges and questions that defy all my understanding and logic.

Before I could formulate an acceptable response, I was awakened from my thoughts by an imposing man, dressed in shining armor, who analyzed me with a penetrating gaze. Instinctively, I get up and decide to play the game they seem to be playing. With a graceful bow, I address him:

— Sorry for any misunderstandings, sir. I'm lost and looking for my way home. I'm from new york. I just need some direction and a day of rest, and I'll leave immediately.

The man in front of me, not much older than me, responds with an expression of disbelief:

— There is no place around here called New York.

My heart freezes at the obvious realization that I am a long way from home. Murmurs begin to spread around us, echoing what we already suspected: they think I'm crazy or have no memory. With a certain nervousness, I try to explain:

— I don't think you understand... I'm not from here.

He interrupts me with poorly disguised arrogance:

— You can tell he's not from here. Where have you ever seen a woman dress like a man?

A sarcastic smile escapes my lips at the irony of the situation:

— So does that mean that a "man" like you would wear pants and a neckline as tight as that, sir?

A giggle escapes from the children around me, as the villagers seem torn between fear and amusement. The guard in front of me raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my response, before addressing a nearby woman:

— Bethany, please accompany Amélia to her home. Give him food and drink, and lend him one of your clothes. I sincerely ask you to give him a job in the kitchen. I'll keep an eye on her until we figure out what we're going to do.

Everyone around us seems stunned by the guard's decision, and for a moment, I feel like a protagonist in one of those fairy tales where fate is decided by unexpected whims.