Hi! So this is, in fact, a self-insert, although I've given her a different name and I'm writing her very different from myself, as well as the other original characters! I was intending on putting this off for a while however, unfortunately, my papa, who the grandfather character was loosely based off of, recently passed away, and so this is being written in tribute to him. I hope you all enjoy!

The bastards hung me in the spring of twenty-five; But I am still alive
~The Highwayman, the Highwaymen

She'd died on that mountain.

She'd tell you that here, and she'd tell you that now.

She remembered the gleam of the gun as it was aimed at her, the ringing of her ears as voices rose and fell, before it fired at her, pain punching through her gut. Remembered fleeing, a brother in all-but blood urging her to "keep pushing, please!" and pushing her other brother all the same, his breathing gurgling just as awful as hers though he was unharmed as they fled deeper into the cave, fighting for each breath as he shoved her up the ladder, pain paralyzing her when she tried to stretch up to grab the rungs.

Remembered her mare collapsing beneath her, moaning and twisting as her life-blood spilled out onto the dirt, the both of them trying and failing to get to their feet. Remembered her brothers trying to get her to stand, but she'd been so weak, been in so much pain, her head swimming, wanting to tell them to go on without her, but when she'd tried blood had spilled from her mouth and left her even weaker.

Remembered the world fading away as they fled, had been sure the last thing she'd ever see was their boots as they bolted up the mountain, leaving her to die as horse hooves beat at the edge of her tinny hearing.

And then she'd woken up.

Started awake, coughing and gasping, drawing the breath she'd been denied on that mountain, only barely able to hear someone rush into her room as she drew her bearings, and found herself more confused than she had been in a very long time.

The bed beneath her was plush, more plush than she'd laid on in a very long time, even more soft and luxurious than that of the bed she'd splurged for in Saint Denis. The walls were white, but not yellowed as so many were, stained from years and years of nicotine tar, and it had taken her a moment to realize that those weren't strange paintings but posters, posters of shows she hadn't seen in months, or had it been a year? shows that had been a century away from being made last she remembered, too-bright animals that Albert would have sobbed to have any chance of his photographs turning out like, and it was too damn bright so she closed her eyes again.

And it was cold. Not in the way Colter had been, and she was damned glad for it. She'd give anything to never be that cold again, so cold she'd feared her blood would turn to slush in her veins, freeze and stop her heart from ever beating again. But cold in a nice way, as the Overlook had been when a nice breeze swept through, and though her heart still bashed against her ribs, thrumming in leaps and bounds, she allowed herself to enjoy it, trying to figure out where she was before opening her eyes again.

No, that wasn't quite true. Because she knew where she was.

But it wasn't possible.

She'd fallen asleep here almost a year ago, and woken up in a whole different world. Had never thought she'd find herself back.

And she had died. Had felt her life-blood leave her, seen it stain the grass.

But she knew her bedroom when she saw it, had only ever had the one for as long as she could remember. And there were her posters, she'd seen them, ones she'd gotten pre-ordering those games she'd played in all that spare time she'd had. Those white walls she'd always wanted to paint but never been allowed to. The blankets beneath her, smooth and soft in the way that only something factory made could be.

But she had died, she'd swear it up and down. And there was no way any of it was a dream. Months had passed, days and nights and weeks and seasons. She'd suffered pains unlike any she could have ever imagined. That was no dream.

Yet here she laid, staring up at her ceiling, as though she'd never woken up in that long-grass field.