Chapter 4: I’m Definitely Not Maid Material

After that late-night talk, Sain dragged me—literally—to a local physician for what had to be the third or fourth time. She looked more serious than I'd ever seen her, her brow furrowed with worry.

"Are you absolutely sure there's nothing wrong with my friend?" she asked, folding her arms and glaring at the physician like she'd wring an actual diagnosis out of him if he didn't give her one.

The physician gave her a weary smile, already packing his tools. "Yes, Miss Sain. I've examined Miss Anna thoroughly. There are no physical abnormalities. No head trauma, no neurological disorders. My conclusion remains the same: her symptoms are the result of psychological stress, likely some form of dissociative memory loss or... perhaps even an identity crisis."

His eyes flicked toward me, as if hoping I'd back him up so he could flee the interrogation. I nodded weakly. Sain sighed but finally let him go, mumbling something about useless old men.

To be honest, I admired her persistence. Sain might be obsessively worried, but I could never repay her for her unwavering support. She never once judged me, even when I began acting in ways that clearly didn't match the Anna she once knew.

It wasn't just about the amnesia. There were countless tiny differences—my speech patterns, my posture, my expressions, and especially my monstrous appetite. And yet, she stood by me.

"I don't care what's changed," she told me once, wrapping me in a warm embrace. "As long as you're still a good person, still my friend, then you're still Anna to me. My best friend."

I didn't know how to respond. Words caught in my throat, trapped behind the lump of guilt and longing. So I just held her back and let her gentle hand smooth my hair like I was someone worth comforting.

Two months have passed since I woke up in this unfamiliar body, in this unfamiliar world.

I've done my best to adapt. At first, I thought it was some twisted dream. Then, denial gave way to horror, which eventually turned into a sort of resigned determination. I began observing everything—details, people, names, places—and the more I did, the more I was convinced of something terrifying.

This world… matched the setting of My Elixir of Hope, a fantasy novel I'd recently read (and savagely criticized) right before my transmigration. The more I learned, the clearer it became. This wasn't just a world like the one in the novel.

This was that world.

With Sain's help, I managed to find work. She brought me into the orchard where she worked—a place of sun-dappled leaves and heavy fruit baskets. It sounded idyllic in theory. In practice? I was a disaster.

I was terrified of bugs, froze when a spider landed on my arm, and shrieked loud enough to scare off birds when a caterpillar dared crawl near me. The other workers whispered, smirked, and occasionally groaned when I "accidentally" dropped a crate or nearly fell off a ladder.

The supervisor, a stern man named Gerick Wright, was fed up within days.

"No, no, not again!" he shouted from across the rows of apple trees. "Is Anna causing trouble? What now? Did she faint again?!"

But then something unexpected happened.

I noticed his ledger lying unattended one afternoon. Bored and curious, I glanced through it, and out of habit—as a journalist—I made some margin notes. Suggestions, corrections, cleaner phrasing, simple calculations.

The next day, Mr. Wright pulled me aside. "Did you do this?" he asked, eyes scanning the improved draft.

"Um… yes?"

He paused, then nodded slowly. "Interesting. You're not suited for the orchard. But… I could use someone to assist with reports. How are you with numbers?"

"Better than bugs," I muttered.

And just like that, I was promoted. Administrative assistant. Higher pay. Indoors. No caterpillars.

But my incompetence didn't stop at orchard work. Oh no. My "maid" skills were practically nonexistent. Cleaning meat made me gag. Cooking was a warzone. Fire either roared out of control or died immediately. My spice experiments were culinary crimes—without fail, the outcome was bizarre alchemy of taste so utterly unspeakable, they could only be endured, never savored.

"I'm just saying," Sain snorted one night, "with those 'skills,' no one's going to believe you were a maid for eight years."

I shot her a glare. "You're mean."

"You used to be this quiet, efficient machine. Barely ate. Never spoke out of turn. Now you eat enough for two people and get tangled in your own skirt."

"Well, that's because skirts are death traps," I muttered, yanking mine straight.

But then she looked at me with a soft, wistful expression. "Still… I like this version of you. You're more alive now. Even with all the weirdness."

My heart clenched. I could only smile, helplessly grateful.

Adjusting to life here hasn't been easy. I miss my old clothes—pants and shirts, not these bulky dresses. My hair, which I always kept short, now falls past my shoulders and constantly tangles. Brushing it is a chore. Styling it is a nightmare.

At least I'm not a noblewoman, I thought. I wouldn't survive a single day with etiquette tutors and corsets.

Still, one question haunted me constantly: why did I end up as this character?

A no-name servant girl who wasn't even mentioned in the book.

Was this some twisted divine punishment? A cosmic test of gratitude? Some random glitch in reality?

And more than anything else… could I ever go back?

While I tried to survive, I also searched for answers. On weekends, Sain and I visited the local library—thanks to Mr. Wright, who pulled some strings. In exchange, we put in extra hours managing the orchard's paperwork.

I read everything I could. History books. Law records. Trade ledgers. Anything that might explain how a modern woman ended up in a fictional universe. At the same time, I made notes of the novel's plot, cross-referencing it with what I observed here.

Anna's old diary was another precious source. Hidden in the few belongings she'd left behind, it painted a bleak picture of her time serving the Mollota family.

She wrote about Riella.

The cruelty the girl endured. The silent stares of servants. The passive contempt of these so-called parents. The guilt of not being able to help. Anna hadn't been a bad person. Just powerless. She did what she could—offering food in secret, comforting words.

She'd even written in code, fearing discovery. Literacy wasn't common among servants.

The novel, My Elixir of Hope, focused on Riella's journey: a brilliant young apothecary rising from hardship, defying her cruel father Lord Mollota, who was secretly spreading a plague to destabilize the empire.

Eventually, she'd work with Prince Claude to stop the plague and reveal Lord Mollota's treachery.

Knowing what I do now, I could help. Maybe warn someone. Prevent suffering before it began. Even if I couldn't return home yet, I could at least make a difference.

A small repayment—for Sain's kindness, for Anna's life.

Lord Mollota was a powerful noble, the Emperor's advisor on defense and trade. His influence was vast. His wife, Lady Isthar, came from a prestigious family. But she was barren. So when Mollota returned from a trip with a child born of a peasant woman—Riella—it created an invisible rift in their perfect image.

Riella's mother had died. Her only legacy was the silver-haired, emerald-eyed girl who resembled the Marquis more than she ever resembled her own mother.

Lady Isthar hated her. Lord Mollota ignored her. She became a tool for future political marriages. Not a daughter. Not even a person.

"Don't kill her," Lord Mollota had once warned his wife. "She might fetch a good price someday."

I shivered with disgust, fury rising in my throat. That bastard. How could someone like him be entrusted with a nation's safety?

No. If I was stuck here, I'd use everything I knew to expose him. That much, I could do.

But still… deep in my heart, I wondered.

Could I ever go back?

Would I even want to?