LOVE STRUCK: Dimensions In Motion

Chapter 3: Navigating the Past

My heart pounded in my chest as I stepped into the bustling room. Everywhere I looked, there was movement, voices blending into a constant hum. It felt like the walls themselves were alive with activity. I kept my head down, trying my best to melt into the background, but I could feel their eyes on me, like tiny, prying fingers that just wouldn't leave me alone. Whispers followed me, but I couldn't catch the words. It didn't matter. My chest tightened with anxiety, but I had to keep going. I couldn't let fear win this round.

At the far end of the room, I saw her—a woman who looked like she could command armies if she wanted to. Graying hair tucked neatly under a bonnet, a stern face that seemed carved out of stone, but not unkind. People naturally made space for her, and I wondered if I could somehow slip into that kind of power, even for a moment.

Our eyes met, and in that second, I felt like she was reading me from top to bottom. I'm not sure what she saw, but she didn't smile.

"You must be the new girl," her voice rasped, like someone who had spent years barking orders and who hadn't had a moment to rest. "I don't care where you're from. But if you're here, you'll work. No exceptions. We don't tolerate laziness."

I could barely nod, my throat too tight for words. Inside, my mind was spinning, processing everything all at once. I wasn't here by choice, but I couldn't afford to mess up.

"Good," she said, and I noticed the tiniest shift in her expression. "There's work waiting for you in the kitchen. Get started."

With that, she turned and walked away, and I followed like I had no choice. The room felt like it was closing in on me, but I kept moving. I tried to take in everything—the low, flickering light from narrow windows, the creak of the floorboards underfoot. Shelves filled with jars and sacks. Everything looked ancient, worn in a way that made me feel completely out of place.

When we reached the kitchen, the heat hit me like a wave. It was alive with the smell of food—meat, bread, spices, all mixing into one overpowering scent. The space was crowded, the air thick with steam and chatter, and in the center of it all was a massive hearth. Pots and pans clanged, and women worked in a rhythm I couldn't quite follow.

The woman stopped in front of a long table stacked high with potatoes. She handed me a sharp knife, the blade gleaming in the dim light. "Start peeling. And be quick about it. These need to be done by noon."

My hands shook slightly as I took the knife. I wasn't a cook. I had no idea what I was doing. But if I didn't peel these potatoes right, I'd probably be out on my ear. I couldn't let myself fail.

I remembered my grandmother peeling potatoes when I was younger. She was quick, precise. I tried to channel that memory, focusing on the task in front of me. The knife felt awkward in my hand, my fingers stiff and clumsy. But I couldn't stop. Not here. Not now.

Everything felt surreal. Just yesterday, I was in my London apartment, excited for my first day at dance school. Now, I was here, in a kitchen that seemed like something out of another century. The lightning strike, the blinding pain, and then—nothing. I didn't know how I got here or why, but it had to mean something. I had to find out.