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The midday sun generously bathed the beach, turning the silvery surface of the water into a sparkling carpet. A narrow stream, surrounded by dense thickets of reeds, swayed lazily in the wind. Near the shore, standing barefoot on the hot, clay earth, Darinka watched the swimmers with a faint, almost mocking smile. Her gaze kept drifting to the heavens, as if hoping to find something there. Two tight braids, gleaming with a coppery shine, cascaded down her thin back, and faint pale lines from her sundress straps remained on her sun-tanned skin.
— What’re you standin’ there for, like you’ve never seen water before? — shouted Justyna, a neighbor from the bank, her laughter ringing out clear and genuine. — Scared it’s too cold? Or you up to your tricks again?
"Ah, I’m afraid this will never end," thought the former tycoon Jeffrey Hanson irritably, now transformed into Darinka Wróblewska, a local Polish village girl with braids, always wearing a sundress and speaking a language that nearly made his teeth ache.
— I ain’t scared o’ nothin’! — Darinka snapped back, spitting out her frustration at Justyna’s sharp remarks. Her own voice grated on Jeffrey’s nerves—a high-pitched tone, dripping with a thick village accent that even locals found amusing. Worst of all, he couldn’t control how the words tumbled out, no matter how hard he tried.
Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the sky again, hoping to catch sight of a saucer or at least some fleeting sign of salvation. But there was nothing—just clouds drifting by and the buzz of a fly circling nearby.
The memories surged back, as sudden as always. That day, when his life fell apart, felt like a crazy dream, yet far too vivid to ignore. Jeffrey… back then, he had still been Jeffrey—rich, arrogant, untouchable. A conference room, luxurious floor-to-ceiling windows, business partners hanging on his every word. He’d gone to the rooftop with his coffee for a smoke, and that was it. The next thing he remembered was a blinding light, a strange dome where gravity seemed to vanish, and beings standing before him—beings unlike anything from Earth. Smooth and fluid, as if made of liquid metal, with glowing veins running through them.
He hadn’t even managed to scream.
Then came the shock. He woke up, barely able to stand, in the middle of a shabby house, its kitchen reeking of dampness and potatoes. A wooden ladle was clutched in his hand, and before him stood a stout woman in an apron, clearly annoyed.
— Darinka, daydreamin’ again? Soup’s not...