Chapter 1 – The Fall
The last thing I remember was light.
Not the light of heaven or whatever people picture when they die. No, this was warmer. Tangible. Like the sun through stained glass. Laughter echoed all around me. There was music, clapping, the joyful murmur of dozens of voices weaving together like a tapestry. I remember holding a glass in my hand—wine, maybe. My knees were sore from dancing. My cheeks ached from smiling.
It was my daughter's wedding.
She stood at the altar, radiant, beautiful. She had my wife's smile and her mother's stubborn eyes. The groom looked like he was barely breathing, too stunned by the moment to speak. And me—I was sitting at a table surrounded by family, watching the first dance, feeling a pride so deep it made my chest swell. My wife leaned her head on my shoulder. My son clinked his glass to mine. My grandkids giggled under the table, hiding from a game of tag they were playing around the banquet hall.
God, it had been perfect.
That was the last moment. The last memory.
Then—black.
Then—
I woke to the taste of soil and blood.
The first breath came sharp and raw, like my lungs had never known air before. I gagged on the weight of it, coughing as dirt scraped my throat and the iron tang of blood lingered on my tongue. Everything hurt. Skin scraped. Muscles burning. My heart—a drum of panic beating inside a cage of unfamiliar flesh.
Then came the realization.
These weren't my hands.
I blinked, stared down at calloused fingers—thinner, smoother, younger. I flexed them, slowly, as if they might splinter apart. My legs were lean, not weathered with years of battle. My torso lacked the thick scars I once wore like armor. My voice, when I spoke aloud, was wrong.
"Where... where the hell—"
It came out hoarse. Not old. Not the voice of a veteran. Not the voice of a man who'd raised children and held his dying friends beneath gunfire. Not the voice of someone who had earned peace.
I was... young.
No. I had been old. I remembered that much. Not just old in body—but heavy in soul. I remembered the feeling of watching my grandchildren run across a sunlit yard. Remembered soft hands in mine, laughter around a wooden table. A life earned, not given.
I remembered war. The weight of a rifle. The silence of dead comrades.
And just moments ago—I was there. At the wedding. Surrounded by the people I loved. Laughing. Living.
Where did it go?
Where was the dance floor? The music? The smell of flowers and candle wax?
Where was my daughter? My wife? My grandkids?
Where the hell did they go?
What happened between the clink of glasses and... this?
Panic twisted in my chest. The memory had been real. I could still feel the warmth of her hand in mine. Hear the laughter. Taste the wine.
And then—I tried to see her face.
Nothing.
No. No, that wasn't right.
I knew what she looked like. I had just seen her. Her veil. Her hair. Her smile...
What color were her eyes?
My throat tightened.
What about my daughter? My son? Their voices. Their faces. My grandchildren—what were their names? I used to whisper them like prayers every night before bed.
Why couldn't I picture them?
Why couldn't I remember?
The horror came fast, sharper than any battlefield fear. Like waking up in a house and realizing none of the furniture belongs to you. Like reaching into a box labeled "Precious" and finding only dust.
I clutched my head and screamed.
"No! NO!"
I clawed at my temples, as if I could force the images to return, as if I could drag them out by sheer will.
But there was nothing. Only feelings. Echoes. Love with no names. Pain with no cause.
Faces blurred and ran like watercolor in the rain.
They were being stolen.
Right in front of me.
That was when the rage set in.
I stood, groaning, my balance unsteady as a newborn. Around me stretched a wilderness vast and untouched. Trees, thick and ancient, loomed in every direction. Ferns the size of bodies curled underfoot, and vines dangled like nooses from the boughs above. The sky was a green-tinted murk through the canopy, casting everything in a breathless, humid glow.
"Where the hell am I?!" I roared.
No response.
Only birdsong—high and alien—and the distant growl of something not quite natural.
I turned slowly, heart hammering, thoughts screaming. A dozen questions surged, but they were nothing compared to the roiling hatred now boiling in my veins.
Why?!
Why was I here? Why was I young? Why had everything been taken from me? Who had taken them?
There was no sign of a struggle. No wreckage. No fire. Just wilderness and silence and a single, perfect envelope lying on a flat stone at my feet.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then picked it up.
The parchment was smooth, untouched by the elements. The ink was dry, but fresh—like it had been written for me only moments before.
It contained three words:
________________________________________
Make it entertaining.
________________________________________
I read them once.
Then again.
And again.
Something in me snapped.
I screamed—a guttural, agonized roar that echoed through the trees like a dying animal. I hurled the letter, kicked the stone it rested on until my foot bled. I screamed until my throat cracked and my voice broke into ragged sobs.
How dare they.
Whoever—whatever—had done this to me. They had taken my life. My wife. My children. My grandchildren. I could feel them. Could ache for them. But I couldn't see them. Couldn't name them.
It was like staring into the sun—I knew they were there, somewhere, behind the glare. But my mind would not let me look.
And now?
Now I was cast into some unknown wilds, trapped in the skin of a stranger, told only to "entertain."
I collapsed to my knees, hands trembling, vision blurred.
The world didn't answer.
Only silence. The quiet buzz of insects. The rustle of leaves.
And the distant knowledge that I was utterly, devastatingly alone.
Time passed. I didn't count it.
Eventually, when silence returned, and my fury simmered into bitter sorrow, I sat slumped against a tree. The sweat on my brow was cold now. My heart ached—not from the exertion, but from the vast, crushing realization that I may never know who I had been. That whoever watched me... it didn't care.
Not long after, the second letter arrived.
I didn't see it fall. Didn't hear it land. It was just there, perfectly placed on the branch before me, as if the world itself had conjured it.
I opened it with trembling fingers.
________________________________________
"Ah. So you speak."
I had forgotten how much noise your kind makes when confused.
You scream. You rage. You bark questions like they matter. It's always the same with your species—every time you're lifted from the muck, you demand a reason. A purpose. Gratitude, even.
I'm not here to explain myself. You wouldn't understand if I did. Speaking to you now already feels like pressing my tongue to mud.
But since your screeching reached even me—fine. Here's your answer:
I gave you something better than what you had. A younger body. A world of tooth and claw. Chaos to match your soul.
What more could a monkey want?
Yes. That's what you are, isn't it? A posturing little primate with delusions of depth. Curious, loud, and endlessly amusing when cornered. It suits you. That's why your company will match.
You'll never rise above them. You were made for the troop. Now dance, little ape. Beat your chest and bare your fangs. Show me something worth watching.
Make it entertaining."
________________________________________
My hands clenched until the letter tore.
A wind passed through the trees, carrying no scent, but full of presence.
And I swore—not aloud, but deep, buried in the marrow of this stolen body—that if this god, this thing, this puppetmaster ever showed its face, I would carve the word regret into its bones.
But for now, I stood.
The forest awaited.