*Reborn in Shadows*

Chapter 6:Reflections

I woke up with a start, my body jolting upright as if it had been shocked. My heart pounded in my chest, a heavy, erratic beat that made it hard to breathe. The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of early morning, the shadows long and stretching across the floor.

A wave of nausea suddenly hit me, sharp and overwhelming, and I threw the covers off, stumbling out of bed. My legs were shaky, barely able to support me as I rushed to the bathroom. The cool tiles under my feet did nothing to ease the queasiness in my stomach.

I made it just in time, falling to my knees in front of the toilet. The retching was violent, my body purging itself of the nothingness that had filled my stomach. It felt like I was trying to expel all the confusion, all the fear, but it clung to me, refusing to leave.

When it was over, I slumped back against the wall, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I felt weak, drained, like the life had been sucked out of me. But as the nausea faded, something else began to take its place—curiosity. A desperate need to understand who I was, to see the face that had been hidden from me since I woke up in that cold, sterile room.

Slowly, I pushed myself up from the floor, my limbs trembling with the effort. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sink, but I hesitated, afraid of what I might see.

Finally, I forced myself to look, to really look. The face staring back at me was unfamiliar, and yet... it was mine. My hair, dark and wild, tumbled around my shoulders, a stark contrast to the neatly styled hair of the woman who called herself my mother. My skin was tanned, a warm golden brown that seemed out of place in the opulent surroundings of this house. I looked thinner than I felt, like I had lost a lot of weight recently, my cheeks slightly hollow, my collarbones more pronounced.

My eyes, a deep, stormy gray, held a sadness that I didn't understand, a weight of memories that refused to surface. I traced my fingers over my face, trying to connect with the reflection in the mirror, but it was like looking at a stranger. I'm dressed in a simple hospital gown, which seems to have shrunk in all the wrong places, making me look like a kid playing dress-up in an oversized costume. I wince at the sight, trying to smooth down my unruly hair with one hand while holding onto the sink with the other.

I pulled back, the doubt gnawing at me like a hungry beast. Was I really their daughter? How could I be, when nothing about me seemed to match? My features were so different, so out of place. The uncertainty made my stomach churn again, but I swallowed it down, trying to keep my composure.

A soft knock at the door startled me out of my thoughts. I turned, my heart leaping into my throat, as the door creaked open. It was the man—the one who called himself my father. He looked at me with those kind, concerned eyes, his presence somehow both comforting and unsettling at the same time.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his voice gentle as he stepped into the room. He had a towel in his hand, which he offered to me. I hadn't even realized I was crying until I felt the dampness on my cheeks.

I took the towel, dabbing at my face, trying to pull myself together. "I... I think so," I managed to say, though my voice still trembled.

He smiled, a small, sad smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's going to take some time to adjust," he said, his tone full of understanding. "But you're safe now. We're here to help you, Cath."

That name again. Cath. It still felt foreign, like a label that didn't belong to me. But I didn't correct him. I didn't know what else to say.

"You must be hungry," he continued, his voice gentle but insistent. "Why don't we get you something to eat?"

The thought of food made my stomach twist again, but at the same time, I realized how empty I felt. I was hungry, but the nausea still lingered, making me unsure if I could actually eat.

"I... I guess," I replied, trying to muster up a smile for him.

He reached out, placing a hand on my arm, guiding me gently out of the bathroom. His touch was careful, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid I might break. I leaned on him as we made our way down the hallway, my legs still unsteady. The house seemed even bigger in the daylight, the grandeur of it all almost oppressive in its wealth and elegance.

As we approached the dining room, I heard voices—male, deep, and lively. My heart started to race again, a mix of anxiety and anticipation curling in my chest. When we entered the room, I saw them—three men, all incredibly handsome, sitting at the long, polished dining table. They were talking and laughing, but their conversation ceased as soon as we walked in. When we reach the dining room, three young men are already seated at the table. They're handsome, each with their own distinct style. The first, with black tousled hair and an easy smile, looks like he's just stepped out of a fashion magazine. The second, with blond hair and a more serious demeanor and a hint of guilt in his eyes, seems to be lost in thought. The third, with an exuberant grin and a youthful energy, bounces in his seat as if he's excited to see me.

The man guides me to a seat at the table. "This is Derek," he says, pointing to the first man, "Michael," to the second, "and Ryan," to the third.
I sit down, feeling a bit like an outsider at this table of warmth and familiarity. They all watch me with a mixture of curiosity and concern, and I can't help but feel like I'm stepping into a life that's both alien and strangely inviting.

"Look who's finally up!" the youngest exclaims with a grin, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "We've been waiting for you!"

"Yeah, we thought we'd have to eat all the pancakes ourselves," the one with tousled hair adds, giving me a playful wink.

The second one, with a more serious expression, looks up briefly and nods. "Glad to see you're feeling better."

I attempt a weak smile, still feeling a bit disoriented. The food on my plate looked delicious, but I could barely bring myself to take a bite.

"How are you feeling, Cath?" the blond man asked, his tone friendly but with a hint of concern.

Before I can say more, a playful argument breaks out between the three of them over the best breakfast foods.

"Seriously, did you have to put syrup on everything?" the serious one grumbles, eyeing a plate of pancakes covered in an excessive amount of syrup.

"Hey, it's not my fault you're a purist," the one with the tousled hair retorts, smirking. "Syrup makes everything better."

"Oh, really?" the youngest chimes in. "Then why did you spill half the syrup on the floor? Now we're going to have ants all over the place."

"I'd rather have ants than a bland breakfast," the tousled-haired one replies with a grin.

"Can we at least agree on one thing?" the serious one says, looking exasperated. "Can we have a meal without it turning into a food fight?"

Just then, the youngest grabs a handful of bacon and flicks it at the serious one, who ducks with a surprised yelp. "Food fight, it is!"

Pancakes fly, syrup splatters, and bacon lands in unexpected places as the brothers break into laughter. The serious one eventually joins in, chuckling despite himself. The man who brought me to the table, trying to keep order, ends up with syrup streaking his suit as he attempts to intervene.

"Alright, alright!" he says, laughing despite his attempts to maintain a semblance of dignity. "Let's clean up before this gets out of hand."

Amidst the chaos, I can't help but laugh. The tension of my situation seems to melt away, replaced by the absurdity of the food fight and the genuine warmth of the family I'm just beginning to get to know.

** To Be continued....