She does a quick sweep, she maps the house as she would any other.

She checks the rooms, she opens a big wardrobe, and kitchen cabinets.

The house is furnished, and yet, void of all signs of a person living or residing in it - there were no frames, no paintings, not a single item of clothing in all the places she had search.

The token keeps her head from spinning again, from how improbable it all seems.

There's not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere - this place is clean.

She clutches onto her token, and is amazed at how she struggles to breathe not out of fear, but at the jarring realization that she feels at home here - empty, but safe nonetheless - she's home here.

She looks down at her feet, expecting for just a moment to see a creature, a wagging tail or a shell of a tortoise and not a turtle.

The bottle cap is cutting into the flesh of her palm - the pain is real, this is real.

Her hand reaches for the spot where her heart beats beneath her chest.

"I saved her."

"I saved her Bass," she speaks to a name she remembers, the name of her pet - the tortoise that's not a turtle.

"I remember you Bass," she looks around the furnished place - the living room, with the couch they shared; her haven away from the world.

"But I don't remember her," she admits but remembers a laughter, and the warmness she feels each time it arises - she just can't pin or link, everything she feels, to a tangible memory, to a face, or a name.

"I saved her," she stands now in the kitchen, hands firm against the counter tops, remembering the aroma of coffee, of breakfast with someone who makes her try without trying, smile and laugh as easily as breathing.

"She's my best friend, and I saved her," the dreams that tear her away from sleep, aren't real, "I won."

"I saved her." She repeats again, greatly affirmed.