I had always thought the world hated me. Not for what I was, not for what I did—but simply because I existed. My name was Jake Allan, and being different was a crime in a school where appearances and conformity were everything.
The hallways smelled of disinfectant and despair. Lockers slammed behind me, slamming my shoulder as I walked past. The laughter followed me wherever I went, echoing in my chest long after I left the halls.
"Hey, freak! What's that on your head—brains or dirt?"
I flinched. The kick to my back sent me sprawling onto the linoleum. My glasses slipped down my nose, scratched against the floor. The boy who pushed me laughed, dragging me up by my collar.
"You think you're smart, huh? You think you're better than us?"
I didn't answer. There was no point. Every word I spoke became fuel for their cruelty. Instead, I bent my head, swallowed their insults like bitter medicine, and endured.
Sometimes, the torture was worse than the laughter. They shoved my head into ashtrays, the cold metal burning my skin. They dunked my face into toilets, holding it there while their friends cheered. And I learned to survive—not by fighting back, but by becoming smaller, quieter, invisible.
Even in school, my life was a ledger of pain. At home, there was no sanctuary. My mother was sick—so sick that every visit to her hospital bed felt like a reminder that death had already touched me. Machines beeped beside her fragile body, carrying her shallow breaths like a cruel symphony. I would sit by her side for hours, holding her trembling hand, praying she would survive another day, while my father had already abandoned us, and my brother barely noticed my presence.
I took on jobs wherever I could—dishwashing, deliveries, tutoring—and studied while standing on aching legs. My bosses treated me like I was nothing, yelling at me for minor mistakes, pushing me past exhaustion. And still, I endured, because survival was all I had.
But then she died.
The call came at dawn. The voice on the other end was flat, robotic, as if they were delivering news of a package rather than the loss of the only person who had ever loved me unconditionally. "I'm sorry, Jake. She didn't make it."
I remember the silence that followed. The world no longer existed. The cruel laughter of school, the harsh demands of jobs, the ache in my body—they all became irrelevant. There was only the void, and I wanted to fall into it.
That afternoon, I climbed to the rooftop of my school. The wind tore at my hair, tugged at my clothes, carrying the faint echoes of the tormentors below. I looked down. I saw their faces—the ones who had shoved me into lockers, pushed me into toilets, mocked my every move. And I felt… nothing.
I stepped forward.
"This is it," I whispered. "This is the only way."
The fall was both terrifying and strangely peaceful. Voices screamed below me, echoes of panic and anger. The world spun, my body hurt, but a numb relief took over. And then… the world ended.
Death, I discovered, was not darkness. It was everything at once—heat and cold, joy and sorrow, anger and calm. Every emotion I had ever felt, and every emotion I had never known, flooded me at once. It was overwhelming, suffocating, intoxicating.
Eight figures appeared, towering and luminous. One stepped forward, the center, radiating a presence so vast it pressed into my very soul.
"You are Jake Allan," she said. Her voice was both thunder and whisper, gentle and unbearable. "You have taken your life."
"I… I couldn't… I couldn't go on anymore," I tried to say. Words failed me, caught between despair and disbelief.
"Do you understand what you have done?" another voice asked, sharp and cold.
"I… my mother… she's gone… my brother… my father… I had nothing," I whispered.
Fanah, the center figure, looked at me with both piercing severity and infinite compassion. "We see your suffering. The beatings, the torment, the endless loneliness. But taking your own life is to erase yourself from the balance of existence."
Other figures stepped forward, voices layering over one another:
"You endured what most cannot bear. And yet you harmed none."
"Millions suffer worse than you and continue on. To leave now is to abandon what is still possible."
"And yet," another murmured, "we grieve for you. We regret the cruelty of life that broke you. But your heart… it remained pure."
I couldn't speak. Tears burned my eyes. "I… I tried to survive…"
"Yes," said Fanah. "Because of your endurance, because of the goodness you carried, you will be given a second chance. But it is not a gift—it is a trial. You will begin again, stripped of all you know, to grow, struggle, and rise once more."
"You will return as one who has not yet lived," another voice said. "Small, fragile, dependent. Your life will start anew, and your choices will shape your destiny. Guard your heart, Jake. Learn from pain, and carry kindness forward."
Light swirled around me. I felt myself dissolving, leaving behind the memories of my old life, my grief, my despair. And then… I was nothing.
When I opened my eyes again, everything was new. Blinding light. Shapes larger than I could comprehend. Warmth, softness, scents of skin and cloth and earth. Hands lifted me, gentle and strong, pressing me close to a beating chest.
"You're awake!" said a woman's voice, full of warmth and wonder. "You gave us such a fright!"
A man's voice followed, steady and tender: "Don't worry, little one. We've got you."
A small, high-pitched giggle. "He's so tiny! Look at him!"
I could not speak. I could not move beyond the slight twitch of my fingers and the fluttering of my eyelids. I only felt—softness, warmth, safety, and wonder.
"You're ours now," the woman said, cradling me carefully. "We'll keep you safe."
The man carried me with astonishing ease. My body felt impossibly light, impossibly fragile. Every instinct screamed to reach out, to understand, but I was a newborn—helpless, dependent, and entirely in the care of these beings I could not yet know.
The little girl leaned closer, her hands brushing mine. "I'm Lila," she said, smiling brightly. "I'm your sister now!"
I drifted in their arms, feeling the blanket against my skin, the warmth of their bodies, the steady rhythm of heartbeats and breathing. I did not yet know the world. I did not know myself. But for the first time in years, there was no pain, no cruelty, no emptiness.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt hope.
Days passed—or perhaps hours. Time felt meaningless when you were a newborn. The world was a swirl of warmth, smells, and sounds. Every heartbeat, every breath, every gentle touch became my universe.
The woman—my mother, though I had no word for that yet—cooed over me constantly. Her voice was soft, melodic, soothing the ache I didn't know I carried.
"Shh… it's okay, little one. Mama's here. Everything's going to be alright," she whispered, rocking me gently in the woven sling.
I could feel the pulse of her heart, the rise and fall of her chest, the scent of her skin mingling with the faint aroma of herbs and cooked food in the air. I didn't understand why it made me feel safe, why my chest ached with warmth I had never known. I only knew that I wanted to stay here forever, cradled, held, alive.
The man—my father, though I had no understanding of that role—carried me with ease I could not comprehend. His arms were strong, yet gentle, each movement precise and sure.
"Easy there, little one," he murmured, rocking me in a slow rhythm. "You don't need to fight anything. We're here. You're safe now."
Lila—my sister, already six years old—watched me with a mixture of fascination and responsibility. Her small hands would reach out, brushing my tiny fingers against hers.
"Look! He grabbed my finger!" she squealed, bouncing on her heels. "He's so tiny, but strong! He's going to be my little brother!"
I could feel her excitement ripple through me. My tiny body responded instinctively—twitching fingers, wriggling toes—but I didn't understand what it meant. I only knew that her joy made the room warmer, lighter, a place where sorrow could not reach.
Even in my new life, echoes of my past lingered—not as conscious thought, but as instinct. I remembered the weight of loneliness, the bitterness of cruelty, the ache of loss. And yet, here, in these arms, I felt something I had never known: belonging.
The days blurred together in a haze of milk, warmth, and gentle voices. Each feeding, each lullaby, each rocking motion was a small miracle, a reassurance that life could be kind. I felt the rhythm of their lives, the pulse of their hearts, and for the first time in years, I trusted that not everything was pain.
The woman would hum softly as she tended to me, her hands moving with careful precision.
"You'll grow strong," she whispered one morning, brushing a fine line of hair from my forehead. "We'll make sure of it. We'll love you every day, and we'll protect you."
The man nodded, leaning closer to press a kiss to the top of my head. "You have nothing to fear here. We'll guide you, little one. Every step of the way."
Lila, with her childish curiosity and boundless energy, leaned over me eagerly. "I'm going to teach you everything, little brother! You'll be the strongest, smartest baby ever!"
And in their voices, in their warmth, in the safety of this home, I felt something fragile yet undeniable: a chance. A second chance. A life untouched by cruelty, where the lessons of my past could guide me without the weight of despair.
One night, as I lay in the woven sling near the fire, I felt a stir of emotion that made my tiny chest ache. My body, weak and small, seemed to resonate with the echoes of all I had endured. And yet, in this primitive house, with the warmth of my new family surrounding me, there was hope. There was life. There was… love.
I didn't know who I was. I didn't know my past, my name, my age. I was Xavier now—a new beginning, a blank page. But somewhere deep inside, a spark of resilience remained. The trials I had faced as Jake Allan had forged a quiet strength that now pulsed through me instinctively, guiding me even as I lay helpless in these arms.
Even in infancy, I could feel that this life would demand struggle. I would have to grow, learn, survive—but this time, I was not alone. These hands, these voices, these hearts would guide me. And when the world grew cruel again—as it inevitably would—I would carry within me the instinctive knowledge of endurance, of hope, and of survival.
The night deepened, the firelight flickering across the walls. My eyelids grew heavy. Lila's soft breathing, the mother's gentle hum, the father's steady heartbeat—they became a lullaby that carried me into sleep. And as I drifted, I felt something I had never allowed myself to feel in my previous life: peace.
Morning came. The sun streamed through the small window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. I stirred, tiny fists curling and uncurling. The mother smiled as she leaned over me, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
"Good morning, little one," she said softly. "Did you sleep well?"
The father chuckled, holding a small wooden bowl of porridge for Lila. "I think he did. Look at those little arms stretching—already eager for the day."
Lila leaned over me again, brushing my cheek. "I'm going to teach you everything! You'll grow up strong and smart, I promise!"
And in their voices, in their warmth, in the safety of this home, I felt hope—a second chance at life, a world where I could be nurtured and grow.
For the first time since I could remember, I believed that perhaps life could be beautiful.
But is it?