The mirror reflected books alone. Books of every size and color filled the ceiling-height bookcase, which ran the length of the stone wall. More books spilled out from underneath the bed. She counted the reflection of the bookshelves over and over, stopping when she reached seven only to begin again, the countless, nameless pages a mystery. All the books had been placed backward on the shelves, their titles hidden from view. The white, cream, yellow, and brown pages spoke nothing to the counting young woman, whose long blonde hair was streaked with dried blood.

She held her throbbing head, sat up in the bed to lean back against the warm leather headboard, and counted the shelves once more. Haunting chords of a guitar penetrated the bedroom through the closed door. One, two, three, four — a small bouquet of orange roses in a squatty earthen vase. Five, six, seven — the deep brown monogram on the crisp white sheets. The music of the guitar stopped suddenly, and she realized she had no idea what the letters on the pillowcase stood for.

Ada washed her face with cold water before looking up into the mirror. She coerced a loose curl over the faint, jagged scar that ran the length of her temple at her hairline. She forced her practiced smile as she stared into her blue eyes. It was nothing she could not handle now, only a dream — a dream she had not dreamed for several years, yet a dream no less. Ada was still right to have come. She settled back into the oversize bed and pulled the orange satin quilt up over her chest before clicking off the glass lamp. One, two, three — an orange petal — four, five, six, seven. Ada sat up again to turn the lamp back on. The large diamond on her finger snagged the sheets as she leaned against the cold, dark wood of the headboard. She ran her finger down the orange satin stripe of the pillowcase to finally trace her own initials onto the crisp white sheets. It was only the jet lag. She was right to have come.

The apartment was luxurious, calculated in its location and excessive dimensions to remind Ada of all that she had become in the last ten years. Having passed the sleepless night staring down at Las Ramblas from her top-story window, Ada now unpacked her large Louis Vuitton suitcases, sipping a café con leche between hanging up dresses. She organized her rows of sandals and stilettos by color in the large, cedar-paneled closet before finally falling back on the stark white coverlet of the king-size bed. Ada lit a cigarette and sighed. She had changed rooms after the dream the night before. This grand bedroom, with its dark, exposed wooden beams overhead and lonely orange leather chair, was not quite as pretty as her first choice but provided large windows that overlooked the street below nonetheless. Ada knew she would switch back in a night or so anyway, the two bedrooms in reality unnecessary since she was traveling alone. Though that was precisely the point. All the beds in the apartment were hers. She had paid for them herself.

Ada stood and walked over to the window. She pushed a curl out of her face and then untied her thin robe. She stared down at the serpentine green of trees along the street below. Barcelona. It had been ten years. She never imagined she would dare to come back, and yet she felt somehow she owed it to herself. This was the only way to convince herself of who she was — that it was not just an illusion. For now the paper-wrapped journal remained hidden safely inside the drawer of the nightstand in the other bedroom. Ada would never really open it, of course, and she now had the stark white bedroom to sleep in when she wanted to be free of all traces of the journal's contents.

"I'm here to do whatever I please," Ada told herself aloud with a huge smile. Her self-assured laugh serenaded the room. She finished her cigarette in silence.

Ada showered in the orange-tiled bathroom. Hot water flowed over her lean, curvy, fatigued body like a waterfall from the ceiling, all orange safely hidden from view as she squeezed her eyes closed. Ada felt strong, powerful, and alive, aside from the vexing orange. She distracted herself with thoughts of citrus groves and Mediterranean sunshine as she slipped on her short skirt. She sought to forget the color orange outside of these contexts. She adjusted her black tank and put on a large, oval onyx ring before deciding to ready herself in the brown-tiled bathroom instead. She had already thrown away the bouquet of orange roses she had found on the sink basin the night before. Of all the apartments to rent in Barcelona, how could she have known that hers would be freshly remodeled in orange? She did her makeup simply — long, dark lashes, a touch of bronzer, and a hint of color on her lips.

After finally tying up her black wedge espadrilles in the living room, Ada grabbed her woven satchel and locked up the apartment. She walked down the five flights of stairs. She had no plans, no commitments for four weeks. Still, there were places she would not dare to go. She willed that her wandering feet be bound by restraint. Deadened memories existed that she would not risk awakening, no matter how confident she had become. She was in Barcelona to prove her strength, not kill herself.

"You would like some company today, miss?" A man on a bicycle rode up alongside her on the sidewalk. He was young, tan, his easy curls blowing as he pedaled to match Ada's long stride.

"No," Ada said. She kept walking. He continued to ride alongside her. She glanced sideways to see her candor had drained the energy of his large grin into slouched shoulders. She sighed impatiently and added, "But thank you."

"Why you are alone?" He spoke in French. He looked her straight in the eyes.

"Because I want to be," Ada answered, annoyed not with the question but with herself for answering it. "I am here to fulfill my grandmother's death wish. I need to focus, please."

"I am very sorry, mademoiselle," he said, "but you are very beautiful. I will help you. I can."

"Good-bye," Ada said as she turned sharply to her right and took an outdoor seat in a café without hesitation. She winked at the waiter who was about to seat the table with an American couple and then promptly ordered an espresso. No one asked her not to smoke. She inhaled as she stared, not seeing the passing tourists. Why the fuck was she explaining herself to anyone? She was here for herself. Period. Not even Paulo had her address. And why the fuck had she said that about her grandmother? Could that be true? After half an hour, Ada got up to stroll down Las Ramblas toward the Mediterranean. She diverted herself with the colorful flower stalls and the warmth of sunshine on her skin until she came to the towering monument to Christopher Columbus at the end. She had intentionally left her camera in the apartment, not admitting to herself that she knew exactly where she was going on her first day back. She turned left to follow Paseo Colon toward Port Vell. Ada stared out across the sea at the collection of boats, following the sidewalk with her shoulders pushed back and her head held high. She refused to look ahead. White boats gleamed in the sunlight, and Ada's eyes smiled behind her large, dark sunglasses. She lost herself for one moment in the impression she'd had the first time she stared out over the port. One, two, three — stumbling on the sidewalk, Ada then had the opportunity to genuinely profess shock. She recovered to find herself staring...