The car veered off the main road suddenly, jolting Julie out of her thoughts. Until that moment, she hadn't been paying attention to where they were going. Her mind had been spinning—too full of confusion, fear, and disbelief to track time or direction. All she could recall was the endless trees, a stretch of emptiness, and silence thick enough to choke her.
Now, the car had come to a halt in front of what looked like an old wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere.
Julie blinked, peering through the tinted window. There was no sign of life around—just tall, wild grass swaying in the wind, a crumbling shed at the back, and a sky that had begun to grey with the threat of rain. The forest loomed behind them like a wall of shadows.
Her door opened with a hard yank.
"Out," the man commanded.
She hesitated, fear anchoring her to the seat. Without waiting for her to move, he reached in, grabbed her by the arm, and hauled her out. Her feet barely touched the ground as he dragged her across the patchy dirt toward the cabin.
"Wait—please!" she cried, stumbling. "Please listen to me! I was kidnapped! I went to the police to report it, but then people started calling me the wife of Dan Mat! I don't know anything about this—I swear—please, believe me!"
He didn't stop.
He kicked open the rickety cabin door and shoved her inside with enough force to send her sprawling to the dusty wooden floor. The door creaked shut behind them.
Julie pushed herself up, her palms scraped from the fall, her breath quick and ragged. "Please," she begged, turning to him again. "Everything that's happening is so strange. I don't know what's going on—I'm not Juliana, I'm Julie Montana. I don't know you!"
The man stood over her, eyes cold. And then, unexpectedly—he laughed.
A loud, humorless laugh that shook his shoulders and filled the small space like thunder.
"You're really something, Juliana," he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "Now you're claiming amnesia?"
He began mimicking her voice in a mocking tone, "'Oh please, sir, I don't remember anything! I'm not your wife, I'm just some innocent woman off the street!'"
His face twisted with bitter amusement. "You should go into acting. You're damn good at it. You had me fooled once—completely. I used to believe you. I really did. I don't know how blind I was. What a fool."
The laughter died in his throat, his expression turning to stone.
"But that's over now. I'm not falling for your lies again. So don't bother trying."
He walked toward the door, his hand on the handle. Before leaving, he turned back, his voice sharp with venom.
"And since you want to act like someone else, fine. Stay here for a while. Let's see if a little time alone will jog your memory."
The door slammed shut.
Julie scrambled to her feet and ran to it. "No! Don't leave me here! Please!" She banged on the door, desperation lacing every word. "Please! I'm not her! Let me out!"
But her cries fell on deaf ears.
She was left alone.
The silence returned, pressing on her chest like a weight. She stood there for a long moment, shaking, her fingers trembling on the handle. Then her legs gave out and she collapsed back to the floor, tears soaking her face as sobs overtook her.
The cabin was dark. There was no electricity, no windows—just old wooden walls, a sagging roof, and the faint scent of mildew and rot. She could hear rats skittering in the corners, their claws scratching the wood.
Julie shuddered.
She hated rats. Her entire body tensed as the sounds got closer.
In complete darkness, she felt her way along the floor until her hands brushed something hard. A table. She climbed on top, curling into herself, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The night was cold, and the wind howled outside. The cabin creaked and groaned like it was breathing.
Alone, frightened, and exhausted, Julie stayed like that all night—eyes wide open in the pitch black, afraid to sleep, afraid to breathe.
When morning came, thin rays of sunlight filtered through a hole in the cabin wall, casting light on her cramped surroundings. Her limbs were stiff from sleeping on the table. She groaned softly as she uncurled, looking around.
The place was ancient.
Dust covered every surface. There was an old, tattered couch pushed up against the far wall, its fabric worn and stained. A broken stool. Empty crates stacked in the corner. No food. No water.
No way out.
Julie's stomach growled painfully. She hadn't eaten since the day of the market—was that two days ago? Three? She didn't know anymore. Everything blurred together.
She staggered to the couch and sat, arms folded tightly around herself for warmth. Time passed slowly. She watched the light on the floor shift with the sun, hoping—praying—that the man would return. That he'd have answers. That he'd finally believe her.
But he didn't come.
Not that day.
Not the next.
By the third day, her lips were cracked, her throat dry, her strength almost gone. She had managed to wrap herself in old bedsheets she'd found in a chest near the back of the cabin, but it did little against the cold. Hunger gnawed at her like a beast.
She was drifting in and out of a dazed half-sleep when the door finally creaked open.
The sound snapped her awake.
A silhouette stood in the doorway, blocking the sunlight. The man. He stepped in slowly, carrying a small bag in one hand. The smell of warm food reached her first—rice, bread, maybe soup. Her stomach twisted painfully.
But Julie couldn't move.
Her body was too weak. Her muscles felt like they'd been hollowed out. She just watched him, her eyes dull and glassy.
He approached and sat beside her on the couch, setting the bag down between them.
"No collapse? Huh," he muttered. "I thought I'd come back to find you passed out. But you're tougher than I thought."
Julie didn't answer. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. She didn't have the energy.
He looked at her for a long moment, then scoffed. "Pathetic."
He pushed the bag closer. "Eat."
Still, she didn't move.
Her eyes met his. Not with anger. Not even with fear. Just numbness. Confusion. A quiet plea that she no longer had the strength to voice.
He studied her face for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then finally—he sighed.
Whether it was pity or guilt, she couldn't tell.
But the question still haunted her, louder than ever:
Who was Juliana?
And why did everyone think she was her?