The dreams come to her without warning, her subconscious mind more aware than her conscious one. In them, she's on a beach, the waves crashing, sand sticking to the sweat on her skin. But she knows it's not Medera. The trees are greener, taller and the sand is golden instead of bleached white.

But it isn't long until splashes of crimson stain the sand and screams join the crash of the waves. Figures move around her, too fast for her to focus on, nothing more than blurs and flicking images around her. She can't move, stuck on her knees, lips parting in a scream, the salty taste of tears on her tongue.

Her instincts tell her this is where she died. She knows her instincts aren't wrong.

She wakes in the night gasping, sweat-soaked and trembling. Everything is oppressively hot, the air heavy and humid. For a moment her muscles are too stiff to move, like she's still trapped in the dream kneeling in the sand.

She feels the breath in her lungs, the hot air scorching a path down her throat. Her ribs expand with each gulping breath, her fingers press into the straw beneath her, and then she's lurching onto her side. She scrambles out of bed and stumbles over to the window to stick her head out of it and suck in air.

The dream begins to fade, spilling from her mind like sand in her hands. She lets it go. Whatever happened, a part of her doesn't want to remember.

Kneeling by the window and leaning against the cold stone, Rosabel's pulse begins to slow in her throat. She comes back to herself, back to Medera, and begins to calm, but she doubts sleep will come again this night.

The stone scratches against her cheek as she soaks in the coolness of it, simply sitting and listening to the ocean crash against the beach. It lulls her into a false sense of calm and—just like her memories slipping away—she lets it.

Something terrible happened that took her memories, why would she want that pain back? She can't be faulted for trying to let it go.

A fragment within her tells her that it's the coward's way out, but instead of listening to it, she pushes herself up with the wall and slips through the curtain covering the door. Keeping her steps light, Rosabel moves through the hut, the floorboards scraping against her bare feet. She exits the hut and goes out into the warm air of the night, significantly cooler now that the harsh sun has stopped beating down upon the land.

She follows the stone path towards the water where she breathes in the salty air, becoming accustomed to the scent of it. Her toes curl in the sand, the light breeze snags at the dress that brushes against her calves, and a weight seems to lift off her shoulders.

Rosabel stops worrying about her dream. She stops worrying about the questions roaming in the back of her mind. Maybe one day she'll concern herself with them again, but for now she's just grateful for the wind licking at her skin and the water sprinkling her ankles.

Bending, Rosabel picks up a seashell, rubbing the sand off it to hold it up. The rough back of it is a pearlescent white, brightening as the rising sun reflects on it. She turns her gaze to where the sun begins to climb from the water, casting a pink haze across the sky.

Rosabel picks up another shell and wonders if she can make a necklace out of them. For some reason, that thought makes her sad.

"I didn't expect you to be up."

Rosabel turns as Xanthe approaches, her hair unbound and tumbling in messy waves down her back. She has a different band of fabric in her hair now, a dark purple that complements her midnight skin. "You've all taken good care of me. I feel much better. Thank you."

Xanthe nods and stands beside Rosabel, looking out at the sunrise as well. She wraps her bare arms around herself, faint nicks littering her skin. "Where will you go?" she asks.

Rosabel shrugs, rubbing her thumb over the shells in her palms, contemplating that. She has no way of leaving the island and nowhere to go even if she could, so she has to stay on Medera. But what will she do here? How will she survive?

Xanthe bends and picks up a shell, inspecting it by the brightening light of the sun before she hands it to Rosabel. "You could stay with us."

"Your parents may disagree."

"I can convince them. You could earn your keep, work like I do."

Pressing her dry lips together, Rosabel doesn't reply. She doesn't want to outstay her welcome, but she's completely lost here with no one else to turn to beyond these strangers. "What do you do?" she questions instead of giving her an answer.

"Fish, fetch water, mend clothes. Mama and Papa don't ask me to do more than that."

Rosabel glances at her and understands why. Xanthe can't be much older than her. How Rosabel remembers her age but not where she's from is a mystery, one she doesn't plan to unravel. Not yet, anyway.

"We could use the extra help caring for the animals. And with the well drying up, we'll need to either move or dig another."

Sighing, Rosabel drops the seashells back onto the beach, deciding that if she's going to try to work with this family, then she won't have time for making necklaces. "Okay," she says. "But I really don't want to impose."

Xanthe loops her arm through Rosabel's and leads the way back to the hut. "You won't. Trust me. I'm in desperate need of more company anyway."

Rosabel snorts, but a small kernel of hope within her blooms, hope that she can join this family and work and live without having to worry about the life that landed her here.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

They sit around the table, Leandra—Xanthe's mother—setting plates before each of them. The food is simple, but Rosabel's mouth still waters and she shovels salted fish between her lips and munches on thick bread with goat's cheese.

"So, you wish to stay," Leandra says as she sips at her water, deep brown eyes on Rosabel who swallows her mouthful of food.

Gaze flicking to where Xanthe nibbles on a corner of her bread, Rosabel wonders how she's meant to go about this conversation without seeming like she's demanding that they pity her and take her in.

"Send me away if you wish," Rosabel blurts out. "I'm sure I can find passage to Doraso if I need to, get work there."

"You'll be picked up by slavers," Xanthe's father mutters. His name is Memnon and he's a slight man, all sinewy muscle and golden brown skin, not as dark as the two girls.

Rosabel licks her lips. "I'll stay here then. Perhaps I can find work at the Oasis."

A look is shared between Memnon and Leandra, one Rosabel doesn't understand.

"No," Leandra says. She pours more water into her cup, only filling it halfway and pouring the rest into Xanthe's cup. "That won't do either. Telajee Oasis is no place for a young woman. We'll find you work here."

Xanthe reaches across the table to grasp her mother's hand. "Thank you, Mama."

"She must earn her keep," Leandra replies, a note of warning in her voice.

"I will," Rosabel says, sitting a little straighter, hoping her statement is convincing. She hopes she can. She wants to. A simple life by the ocean with hard work to keep her busy sounds like a dream, a perfect way to begin again.

"Then finish eating, we have a lot to do today."

Rosabel does as she's told and inhales her food, barely stopping at licking the plate clean. She helps wash up the dishes, Xanthe and her standing side by side to scrub and dry what little water they're allowed to use.

A sense of excitement wells up inside of Rosabel. She has something to do, a path to follow, and for some reason this makes everything feel alright. Her lost memories aren't a concern, her only concern is the task before her.

After they've cleaned up, Xanthe and Rosabel follow Memnon outside where the sun beams, turning the sand to a shifting layer of heat. Rosabel slips on the sandals Xanthe offers her, the leather cords wrapping around her ankles and offering her feet protection from the scorching sand. Then Xanthe braids her red locks, carding her fingers through Rosabel's hair and tying it off with a leather strip.

Feeling prepared for the day, she follows them towards the beach and the water. Water soaks the edges of Rosabel's pale dress as she wades into the shallows, where they begin to gather the nets previously set up, filled with wiggling fish.

Xanthe and Memnon spend the day under the sun teaching Rosabel how to set up the nets in the water once they've gathered the fish in wooden buckets. The waves push at her thighs, threatening to drag her down, but Rosabel widens her stance, watching the way Memnon prods with his feet in the water until a flounder surfaces, his spear raised and ready. In a flash, he brings the spear down and resurfaces with a fish flopping on its end.

Rosabel decides she has to learn how to do that one day.

Distracted by Memnon's skill, she doesn't notice the particularly large wave barreling towards her until it's crashing into her, sweeping her legs out from under her. Rosabel barely manages a gasp before she's being dunked under the water. She comes back up flailing, her dress sticking to her body, and Xanthe's laugh echoing over the water. The girl has her hands on her knees as she outright cackles.

Rosabel scoops up a handful of water and sends it arcing towards Xanthe. It splashes her tunic, molding the material to her slim body, and the girl yelps, her laughter cut short. Rosabel grins as Xanthe pulls her tunic away from her body, sending a scowl towards Rosabel.

"I couldn't help it," Rosabel says, her smile beginning to fade as she hopes this doesn't make Xanthe not want her here anymore. Has she already jeopardised her new life?

But Xanthe banishes those thoughts when she splashes a wave of water at Rosabel, hitting her right in the face. Rosabel coughs and splutters, scrambling out of the water as Xanthe's laughter follows her; and her splashes.

Soon, the girls are in a splashing war, drenching each other, their shrieks filling the air.

"You're scaring away the fish!" Memnon calls as they sprint after each other through the shallows, but there's amusement in his voice and he doesn't ask them to stop.

Rosabel can't remember much, but she knows in her gut she hasn't felt happiness like this in a long time. It just makes it easier to forget she even has a past. And she's glad for it.