She appears to have landed in... a graveyard. The nearest tombstone bears the name NERO and an uncomfortably larger-than-life carving of a scorpion, the curve of its stone tail framing the name, its barb angled threateningly to guard the grave.

There's a house in the middle distance, a tall sprawling thing with dark walls and dark roofs and lots of pointy bits. A winding path leads down to it from the graveyard's wrought-iron gate, through gardens of black flowers and strange spiky plants.

She appears to be, if not completely in the middle of nowhere, definitely not in the sort of urban environment where you can find a police station by picking a direction and walking. Better to try to get a ride from someone. She starts walking towards the only visible building.

The house (unless it's a church? It's pointy and next to a graveyard) looks like it belongs to someone very rich with fantastic taste in house architecture and questionable yet based taste in landscape architecture. Nearly anyone would be nice to a lost blatantly harmless tiny person; hopefully they're part of nearly everyone. (For that matter, hopefully this is a part of Earth that speaks English and not, say, Italy, or the twelfth century, or a fantasy world. It at least has a recognizable alphabet, basically normal grass, and the concept and probably the reality of scorpions. She doesn't recognize any of the plants in the garden but she's not a plant expert so that doesn't mean much.)

A figure emerges from the house and turns up the path toward the graveyard. Small, but larger than Miranda currently is. Dressed in black. Rather overshadowed by an umbrella. (The sky is clear, but maybe she knows something Miranda doesn't.)

Oh good, the house is definitely inhabited and probably not a church. And maybe a kid is more likely than an adult to answer some weird questions without asking awkward ones in return.

Once they're close enough to hear each other without raising their voices, she waves. "Hello. Do you know where this is? I'm lost."

The umbrella tilts backward to reveal a face, small and pale and framed by twin black braids.

"This is my house," says the small pale individual. "How did you come to be in our graveyard? Are you a ghost?" Her voice is mostly very level but she sounds like she is provisionally considering becoming excited about the prospect of a ghost.

Dang, good questions. "How I got here is complicated. I don't think I'm a ghost, though, I don't look like one. Not that I know what ghosts look like or whether they exist." She previously would have said they didn't, but then she also would have said that about body-transforming memory-eating closet lights, so what does she know about anything? The universe is probably a simulation anyway. "What country are we in and what year is it?"

She lets out a sigh of restrained, genteel disappointment at the ghost-related news. "Two thousand eighteen, in the United States of America." With a hint of wistfulness, "Are you sure you don't remember dying?"

Huh, she doesn't remember what year she was in yesterday but she thinks it was a few years later than 2018. Also she really wants to tell this kid she's a time traveler because it sounds like she'd believe it and think it was cool, but she needs to have a consistent story laid out and not say anything that could land her in a mental hospital if the kid repeats it at an inconvenient time.

"Pretty sure, yeah." Actually she should try to rule out that this isn't an alternate earth where people who die on the previous earth spontaneously appear in graveyards as children routinely or something. "Are ghosts definitely real or is that why you were asking, because you don't know if they are or not?"

A slightly quizzical look. "Of course they're real. The trouble is that they're much rarer than I would prefer."

Okay so either this is an alternate earth/secondary world/whatever or she's got a bit of advantage in a he said/she said. Not that that makes it safe to just say everything, because maybe this is a world where ghosts are normal and time-travelling dimension drops are not. Or maybe whatever messed with her memories also messed with her memories of the world being purely reductionist. Pretty much any amount of Doubt is justified at this point. But all you can do is start with the priors you have and move swiftly from there.

"Huh. I wonder what else exists that I don't know about."

"I've heard that there are some people who don't believe in ghosts..." she says, slowly, doubtfully. "Do you also not believe in vampires?"

"I would need to examine the evidence for and against vampires before I came to any sort of confident conclusion on the matter."

She blinks, momentarily taken aback; then her lips tug sideways into just the faintest hint of an approving smile. "That's very reasonable of you," she says. "What's your name? I'm Wednesday."

"Miranda." Her last name appears to have gone wherever her home city and the previously current year did. "It's nice to meet you." 

"Rarely if ever," she says. "If I invite you in for tea, will you tell me how you ended up in the family graveyard?"

That's a tricky one. She doesn't want to spin an elaborate lie, and she doesn't want to tell the truth, and she doesn't want to walk goodness knows how far looking for someone else who may well immediately present the same problems. Also when you're expressing Cartesian doubt re: the existence of ghosts and vampires and don't know your full name or what day of the week it is, it's kind of questionable to devote too much effort to not getting your brain checked over.

"Yeah, okay."

"This way."

She spins neatly on her heel and leads Miranda toward the house, every step precise. As they walk into its shadow, she closes her umbrella.

The door opens at her approach, revealing a tall blank-faced man smoothly standing back out of their way as he opens it; Wednesday nods to him, and he nods back, and this seems to be the extent of the interaction they prefer to have at this time.

Miranda follows, and smiles politely at Wednesday's family member or butler or something. Housemate.

Is the inside of the house as aesthetically coherent as the outside?

Very extremely much so, yes.

The floor of the foyer gleams spotlessly, tiled in square panes of black marble two feet on a side. Their ghostly white veins seemingly serve only to better highlight the deep rich blackness between. There are a few cobwebs in the corners of the high black ceiling; these, too, gleam spotlessly, as though designed and maintained by professional spider artisans to enhance the look of the room. The light they catch is provided partly by ornate wall sconces that seem to bear ordinary electric lights, but mainly by hundreds of candles set in an iron chandelier high overhead.

Ahead of the girls, a black marble staircase rises toward the second floor, splitting halfway to turn to the left and right; the chandelier hangs directly above the foot of the stairs, in the center of the large square room. From the edges of the ground-floor area and from a balcony covering the three non-exterior sides of the second-floor area above, ornate wood-paneled doors set in ornate wood-paneled walls lead to the rest of the house. Everything is either dark and desaturated or pale and desaturated; Miranda is by far the most vibrant object present.

Wednesday ignores the staircase and makes a beeline (a spiderline, perhaps?) for a door on the right, which when opened lets out into a long, narrow hallway that continues the themes established in the foyer. She leads Miranda almost all the way to the end of the hall and then takes a hard right into a small sitting room, with bone-white armchairs and a bone-white couch arranged around a dark wooden coffee table with a lacy white runner. The man from the door, or possibly a different man cast in the same mold, is just setting down a large tray with a teapot, two cups and saucers, and a plate of assorted scones and biscuits with accompanying dishes of butter and jam; he nods to Wednesday, and she nods back, and he departs without a word.

Wednesday sits in an armchair, folds her hands neatly in her lap, and subjects Miranda to a piercing gaze.

"Your house is beautiful," she murmurs as they cross the foyer. She clashes terribly with everything in her galaxy print hoodie, but doing a totally different aesthetic is less embarrassing than doing the same aesthetic poorly or not doing an aesthetic at all.

Once they're sat down she looks levelly back at Wednesday across the tea set. Not having any adults obviously listening makes it much easier to tell the truth, because she'll at least have a chance of switching to a lie later. "Until a few minutes before we met, I was an adult living several years in the future. An unexpected phenomenon in my closet de-aged me, teleported me to your graveyard, and has also mangled my memories so I don't know where I was living or exactly when it was. I can recall some historical events from up through twenty twenty-two but nothing of my personal history. Unfortunately that's all I know of the matter. I'm kind of hoping you've heard of this sort of thing happening before, because if I have I've forgotten that too."

"No," she says slowly. "No, that is... new. And interesting." She frowns slightly, deep in thought. "If you were an adult in twenty twenty-two then you aren't the age you would be if you'd only been wound back in time, right? Do you remember enough biographical details to look yourself up and find out if there's an... older-younger version of you out there? Or—if you only remember impersonal history, could we triangulate by figuring out which history you remember? It should be possible to narrow you down to a city that way..."

"Yeah, I would have been older than this in the previous twenty eighteen. I don't remember any of the cities I've lived in or the people I've known but I could try--looking at a list of cities and seeing which ones I know a lot of facts about? One complication is that I'm not sure I'm even on the same earth; we both speak English and stuff but I should check that the histories match up. Uh, also, do you have parents and will they decide I'm insane if they hear any of this."

"Of course they won't think you're insane. And even if they did, what would it matter? Insane people can still be excellent company; just look at my Uncle Fester. Actually, don't. He's on the run from the law and might not take kindly to witnesses."

"Don't worry, I have a terrible memory for faces. If you have any song lyrics on the run from the law you should definitely keep me away from those, though." The joke buys her time to process the statement a bit more. Hopefully Uncle Fester is either himself the subject of a joke or innocent or guilty of something relatively harmless and is not, for example, a vampire. "I'm glad your family won't think I'm insane, or at least won't be dicks about it."

"So you have no personal history, and we must assume no legal identity, and nowhere to go, and you're a time traveler from a mysterious future. Inside your head you're an adult, but outside it you're younger than my little brother."

She pauses, then smiles, a real actual smile that occupies considerably more than six square millimeters of her face.

"I think I'll tell my mother to adopt you."