Miranda kind of regrets investigating the mysterious light in her closet, but she doesn't regret being the sort of person who investigates the mysterious light in her closet. Regardless, she made her choice, and now she's in an unfamiliar body on a street somewhere where the street signs are in English, with her semantic and procedural memory apparently intact and her episodic memory so scrambled she isn't sure who she needs to go home to. There's a hazy memory of recursively staring at herself through two pairs of eyes as the world melts around her. Hopefully this is the kind of isekai where there's still an instance of her back . . . wherever she was, and whoever she nebulously misses isn't experiencing her being dead.
Or possibly she's in the past and will catch up to everyone eventually, because there's a pay phone on the corner and her body is tiny. Is she five? Seven? She scrutinizes her face in a shop window; it might be her own face from the past but it's hard to be sure across a gap of twenty-plus years. This is before she even wore glasses. She's definitely too young to get a job even apart from her lack of credentials or legal identity.
Probably she should show up at a police station and try to get reintegrated into civilization. And not say anything that sounds too much like having total retrograde episodic amnesia or they'll stick her in a hospital.
This whole situation fucking sucks, honestly. Fuck.
With that acknowledged: time to go talk to some cops.