A woman in a bathtub with her hand on her chin

I turned back to the room, brushing a stray curl from my face as I did so. A stray curl? My hair hadn’t been curled before. Shocked, I looked down at my shoulders and gasped at the rich chestnut curls that spilled over them. Somehow my hair had escaped its ribbon and then curled itself. How was it possible? There was a mirror in one corner, and I rushed over to it, worries about dirt on the white carpet forgotten. I stopped short at the sight of my reflection; my hair had indeed been washed and curled and brushed until it shone, but even more shocking, the rest of me had somehow been given a bath by the breeze. My face and hands, both grimy from days of travel, were now freshly-scrubbed and clean. I stepped forward, putting a hand to my astonished face, and stared at the image.