𝐌𝐈𝐙𝐏𝐀𝐇 - TMR, Minho

𝟢𝟢𝟣，𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐧

I know very few things about this place.

I know I'm trapped between boys.

I know that those boys stink.

And I know something about this place is very messed up.

I don't know my name.

I don't know why I'm here.

I don't know anything, to be honest.

That's the weird thing. I know things but I... don't. I can name animals but I can't remember who taught me the names. I am able to calculate things in my head but I can't remember who taught me that either.

That's the worst thing. Knowing but not knowing.

Perhaps if I didn't know anything at all, I would've just believed that weird elevator that brought me here is some kind of version of a stork bringing babies. I think I would've been better off like that.

But no. I know for certain that I was born at least more than ten years ago—by the looks of it—and that I am not supposed to be here.

I know I'm scared, too. The boys here can't be older than thirteen and they all look like little sticks, so I doubt that they'll hurt me. They've been nice so far. Yet I am scared of every single thing here, even them.

I'm currently sitting against a tree, watching those kids stumbling around with blocks of wood. They place it unsteadily on a whole stack of wood. I think it's supposed to become a house.

Kids are clearly not made for building houses, by the looks of this.

It looks like the blocks of wood aren't even stuck together. It's not neatly done; some blocks are bigger than the other, some stand out, some have been placed in a wrong way. The doorframe is just a round, big hole. I wonder how they want to make the ceiling.

There are about twenty boys here. They haven't explained anything to me. They told me to wait against this tree, in fact. Which felt weird; being commanded by someone my age. Something I'm clearly not used to, even without any memories.

"Hi." A pair of shoes make a crunchy sound as they steps on leaves and sticks.

I look up, finding out it's the boy who told me to come sit here. He has pale skin. Little beads of sweat are running down his forehead, matting his brown hair onto it. He wears glasses, a pair he readjusts now and then because it keeps slipping off.

It's not extremely hot here, but I can imagine carrying all that wood in a burning sun is tiring.

"Hi," I reply. I'm not sure what else to say. I have so many questions that it will take him hours to answer them all, and I don't want to do that to the poor boy.

"My name's Nick," he announces.

"Hi, Nick. I don't know who I am."

A tiny smile curves on his lips at that already. "Thank God you're not one of the crybabies."