I stared blankly at the marble figure before me, my mind as still as the Roman emperor carved in stone. Around me, the museum buzzed with life—tour guides droning on, students murmuring, footsteps echoing against polished floors—but their voices were distant, muffledlike I was hearing them from underwater.

I exhaled slowly. How did my life end up like this?

Once, the world had been vivid. Full of color, warmth, and life. But ever since my mother died, everything had faded to dull shades of gray. People said time healed, but time had only made the emptiness more permanent. I was named after a flower she loved—Iris, a symbol of hope and good fortune. Funny how that turned out.

I shifted my gaze back to the statue, studying his face. Was his life better than mine? Did the past offer something I never had? Security? Purpose? Was ruling an empire easier than trying to survive another day in this world?

I glanced down at the plaque. "Emperor Nero."

Tilting my head, I examined him again.

“He looks kind of decent,” I muttered, popping a piece of candy into my mouth.

A scoff came from beside me.

“Decent?”

I flinched. My uncle stood there, arms crossed, an unimpressed look on his face.

“You weren’t listening to my lectures about him, were you, Iris?”

I avoided his gaze. “History isn’t my thing.”

Without waiting for his response, I walked off, heading toward another exhibit. But of course, he followed.

“I’m spending quality time with my favorite niece, who, I should add, is one failed quiz away from failing my subject,” he said, voice laced with sarcasm.

I rolled my eyes. “Wow, what an honor.”

He adjusted his thick glasses and scribbled something in his notebook.

I narrowed my eyes. “What are you writing? My passing grade?”

“No,” he replied smoothly. “Your next essay topic.”

I groaned. “Another essay? Can’t I do something not soul-crushing?”

Ignoring me, he pointed to a painting.

“This one. Write about it. What you see, what you feel, what you learn. No filters, just write.”

I turned to face the artwork, arms crossed. It depicted a Roman garden, a field of flowers swaying in the breeze. Purple irises.

A lump formed in my throat.

I clenched my fists. “You did this on purpose.”

He sighed. “I remember how you cried when I told you the story of Echo. You used to be so empathetic, Iris. I just want you to see the world again.”

I looked away. His hand rested gently on my shoulder, warm and steady. But it felt heavy.

“The girl you’re looking for is gone,” I whispered. “She died with my mom.”

His fingers slipped away. A pause. A sigh.

“I’m not asking you to heal overnight,” he said softly. “I just hope, someday, you’ll be okay.”

Then he left, giving me space.

I slumped onto the bench in front of the painting, staring at the irises on the canvas. My name. My mother’s favorite flower. A cruel joke the universe kept playing on me.

I pulled out my notebook and pressed the pen to the paper, but the words wouldn’t come.

Would writing about some stupid flowers fix anything? Would it bring my mother back? Would it make me feel whole again?

Of course not.

I tilted my head back, staring at the ceiling, willing the tears to stay where they were. I was so tired of crying. But no matter how much I tried to suppress it, the weight in my chest never left.

The world wouldn’t miss me.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my small candy tin and popped another into my mouth. At least, that’s what people would think. The reality was different.

The reality was that they weren’t candies at all.

As I chewed, dizziness washed over me. My vision blurred, the museum tilting around me as if I were being pulled away.

Did it work? Did I finally succeed?

My body slumped forward.

People walked past. No one noticed. No one cared.

A breathless, bitter laugh escaped my lips, but my eyes betrayed me—hot tears slid down my cheeks, silent proof of the pain I had buried for so long.

Why does the world love tormenting me?

Then—

Footsteps. Fast. Rushed.

A voice. Desperate. Panicked.

“Iris!”

Hands caught me before I hit the ground completely. My uncle. His arms held me up, shaking, his voice pleading for me to stay awake.

My fingers loosened around the tin, letting it slip to the floor.

Darkness crept in.

As I took what I thought would be my last breath, I heard him whisper something in Latin—words I barely understood, but somewhere deep inside me, I felt their weight.

"Quocunque fit, domum redi, Iris."

No matter where you go, come home, Iris.

"Do you think she's dead?"

"I think she's still breathing… maybe just unconscious. Or sleeping."

That wasn’t right.

I shouldn’t be hearing anything.

There shouldn’t be voices.

I was supposed to be gone. That was the plan. I had taken enough pills to make sure of it. No more pain, no more suffocating pressure. No more pretending everything was fine.

But instead of nothingness, I felt… warm sunlight. A soft breeze. The distinct rustling of leaves.

A slow, creeping panic coiled inside me.

I wasn’t supposed to wake up.

My eyes fluttered open. The light was unbearable—too bright, too golden. Not the fluorescent glow of hospital lights.

I squinted, wincing at the sudden onslaught of sensation. The smell of damp earth, the gentle tickle of grass against my fingertips. My body felt heavy, and sluggish, like I was waking from the deepest sleep of my life.

I turned my head, trying to make sense of where I was, and suddenly—

Flowers.

A field of them.

Purple petals stretched as far as I could see, swaying in the breeze. Irises.

My name. My mother’s favorite flower.

The panic inside me twisted tighter.

This wasn’t the museum.

And then I noticed them—five people standing over me.

Women, dressed in dirty tunics, their expressions hovering between concern and suspicion.

I tried to sit up, my heart hammering. “What the—?”

One of them knelt beside me, her hand outstretched. "Are you alright, young miss?" Her voice was gentle, but there was something wary in her gaze like she was assessing whether or not I was a threat.

I swallowed hard. “I… I think so.” I let out a shaky laugh. “Are you guys cosplayers?”

The women exchanged confused glances.

Another one furrowed her brow. "Cos… player? Is that some kind of profession?"

My stomach dropped.

I forced a smile, waiting for them to say they were joking. Waiting for someone to break character and admit this was just an elaborate museum event.

But they didn’t.

A chill crept up my spine.

I looked around again, my breath catching in my throat. This place—it felt familiar. Not because I had been here before, but because it looked exactly like the painting my uncle had been trying to get me to write an essay about.

A Roman garden.

I let out a hollow laugh. "Oh god. I teleported into a painting."

The women stared at me like I had grown another head.

“Are you feeling ill?” one of them asked, reaching for me again.

I jerked back. “No! No, I’m not alright! This isn’t the museum! This isn’t—”

"What is going on here?"

A voice—smooth, commanding—cut through my panic.

I turned.

And froze.

Standing behind me was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

She wasn’t just beautiful. She was regal. Otherworldly.

Long, wavy black hair, pinned up with an elaborate golden hairpiece embedded with pearls. Sea-green eyes that were sharp yet unreadable. Her skin was porcelain-pale, a soft contrast to the deep red silk of her dress. A sheer veil draped over her shoulders, her fingers resting lightly against her throat as if she were concealing something.

I forgot how to breathe.

"It’s her… the Empress." One of the women whispered.

As if on cue, all five of them bowed.

I felt a sharp tug on my wrist. The eldest woman shot me a warning glance, subtly gesturing for me to follow their lead.

I hesitated, my thoughts a jumbled mess. But something told me that standing out right now was a very bad idea.

Slowly, I lowered my head.

From beneath my lashes, I stole another glance at her.

She was staring directly at me.

A shiver crawled up my spine.

"Which patrician do you belong to, slave? And what in Jupiter’s name are you wearing?"

I blinked. What?

Her voice was smooth, but there was steel beneath it. The woman beside me tensed. The air shifted, growing thick with something unspoken.

"Slave?" I repeated, my voice hoarse. "Who—who are you?"

Her expression didn’t change. "Who am I?" A pause. "Who are you? And what are you doing in my garden?"

I swallowed hard. My pulse was thundering in my ears.

This had to be a prank. A TV show. It's a hidden camera thing. Right?

I let out a nervous laugh. "Okay, this is insane. Am I on a set? Some kind of—Roman drama? Am I being pranked?"

The Empress' expression didn’t flicker.

She turned to one of her attendants. "Roman… drama? Is that a new empire I am unaware of?"

The attendant shook her head.

I nearly choked. Oh, this was bad.

"Okay—uh—I think I should go now," I muttered, spinning on my heel.

I needed to find an exit. A door. A way out.

I broke into a run.

“Wait, young lady! You are not allowed to enter the palace, you might—”

"What is this commotion?"

I stopped dead in my tracks.

A man stood before me.

Tall. Menacing.

His gaze was like a blade, cutting through me with terrifying ease.

The women beside me dropped to their knees. The Empress followed suit.

I felt a hand clamp around my wrist and pull me down. The Empress’s voice was a whisper against my ear.

"Bow down."

I hesitated.

"If you want to live."

I obeyed.

"Emperor Nero," she said smoothly, her tone perfectly measured. "This is a new attendant. She is from a foreign land and was sold as a slave."

Wait. What?

Before I could protest, Nero stepped forward.

His fingers tilted my chin upward, forcing me to meet his gaze.

A cold wave of dread washed over me.

Everything in me screamed: Do not look him in the eye.

I tried to turn my head.

His expression darkened.

SMACK.

Pain exploded across my face.

I staggered. The world tilted. My ears rang.

The Empress caught me before I fell, steadying me as I gasped for air.

I barely registered Nero’s voice, barking orders—something about torches.

The words didn’t fully sink in until I felt the Empress’ grip tighten around my arm.

"You do not want to get on his bad side," she whispered. "That man can kill you with just a few words."

My breath came fast and shallow. Where am I?

My voice trembled. “Who—who are you?”

She hesitated. Then, in a voice as soft as silk, she said—

"I am Poppaea Sabina. The Empress of Rome."

My stomach dropped.

I took a step back, my head spinning. “Rome?”

She nodded. “Yes. The Great Palace in Rome, where Emperor Nero resides.”

I felt dizzy. “No… No, this can’t be real.”

Her gaze softened. “Ancient Rome? My dear, our city isn’t that ancient.”

My chest tightened.

I turned—ran—to the nearest balcony.

And when I looked out—

I saw it.

Rome.

Alive. Breathing.

I staggered back, shaking my head.

"This can't be happening."