“Who are you?”
I turned around, my heart slamming back into my chest with relief.
There she was, sitting on a white bed, in a white dress, staring at me like I was a stranger. There were cuts on her face, but they were healed. There was a white vanity beside her. There were no paintings or rugs in the room.
“That’s funny,” I said, panting from the adrenaline rush of what I did earlier. “I was gonna ask you the same question.”
She gave me a puzzled look.
“You don’t remember then,” I said. A lightbulb went off in my head, and I excitedly approached her. “The song. Maybe you remember the song.”
“The song?”
I sat beside her and hummed the song she had played on the piano. She looked at me, fascinated. “What’s that?”
I paused.
“Who’s the artist?”
“You.”
“A song for you and me,” I said, a part of me grieving something I couldn’t even explain. “I’ll teach you, but we’ll have to get out of here first.”
“But here is all I’ve ever known.”
“We can change that,” I said, my voice wavering. I cleared my throat. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Neither do I.”
“Will you give me a name then?”
I looked at her expectant eyes. “Okay, but if you don’t like it, you can always change it.”
She nodded.
I let out a deep breath. “Frida. I’ll call you Frida.”
She nodded, and a small smile broke on her face. “I like it. And what do I call you?”
“I gave you a name. I think it’s only fair that you give me mine.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know any other name to give you.”
“That’s alright.” I offered my hand to her. “We can learn more names once we’re away from here.”
Her smile widened. “Okay.” She took my hand.
There was only one door in the room. I looked up at the small square in the dark-filled ceiling. I wasn’t sure how it actually worked, but I was willing to take the risk.
“You ready?” I asked, both for her sake and mine.
“No,” she said and wrapped her arms around mine, “but I trust you.”
“We’ll figure this out,” I said, “together.”
We focused on the door that seemed so far away andjumped.
