I had always believed the world hated me.
Not for what I'd done.
Not for who I was.
But simply because I existed.
My name is Jake Allan, and being different was a crime in a school where appearances and conformity were everything.
The hallways always smelled of disinfectant and despair. This building devoured hope and spat out cruelty. Lockers slammed shut behind me, metal hitting metal with sharp, mocking violence. One door even clipped my shoulder as someone slammed it on purpose. Their laughter followed, bouncing off the walls long after I passed.
"Hey, freak! What's that on your head—brains or dirt?"
The voice cut through the noise.
Before I could turn, a kick slammed into my back. Pain flashed up my spine, and I skidded across the linoleum floor. My glasses slid crookedly down my nose, the lens scraping.
A shadow loomed over me. The boy who pushed me grabbed my collar and yanked me upright, his breath hot and sour.
"You think you're smart, huh? Think you're better than us?"
I didn't answer.
I learned long ago that talking only made things worse. Every word was fuel, every reaction entertainment.
So I stayed quiet.
I swallowed the pain, like always.
He shoved me back onto the ground. Laughter erupted behind him, a chorus of approval.
Sometimes, the torture was worse than the insults. They had shoved my head into ashtrays before, grinding it in until the cold metal burned my skin. They'd dunked my face into toilets, cheering as they held me under. Other times, they simply surrounded me, taunting until my voice dried to nothing.
I survived not by fighting, but by shrinking—smaller, quieter, invisible.
That was school.
Home was no sanctuary either.
My mother was sick—terminally sick. I spent hours beside her hospital bed, holding her fragile hand while machines beeped like a cruel countdown. Every shallow breath she took was a reminder that she was slipping away.
My father had abandoned us long ago. My brother barely acknowledged I existed. Even at home, I was an outline no one bothered to fill in.
So I worked.
Dishwashing. Deliveries. Tutoring.
Anything to pay bills, anything to keep my mother alive a little longer.
My bosses treated me as disposable. They yelled for minor mistakes, pushed me through exhaustion, and I endured every second because survival was the only option.
And then—
she died.
The call came at dawn.
The voice on the other end was cold, practiced. "We're sorry, Jake. She didn't make it."
That was it.
No comfort.
No time to breathe.
The silence that followed swallowed me whole.
Everything became irrelevant—the bullies, the pain, the fatigue. The world lost color, sound, meaning. There was only emptiness, stretching endlessly.
I didn't remember walking to school that day.
I just… arrived.
And at lunch break, when no one was around, I climbed to the rooftop.
The sky was pale gray. Wind tore at my hair and clothes, carrying faint echoes of laughter from below—the same voices that tormented me daily.
I stepped to the edge.
Below, I could see them.
Faces twisted in cruelty.
Voices that pushed, pulled, broke.
I felt… nothing.
"This is it," I whispered. My voice barely carried.
"The only way."
My foot moved forward.
For once, the fall was peaceful.
The world spun, but the torment didn't.
Pain was distant.
Fear was gone.
Everything was… quiet.
And then—
I died.
Death wasn't darkness.
It was everything at once—heat and cold, joy and despair, grief and serenity. Every emotion I had ever known twisted together, overwhelming yet strangely calm.
Shapes formed within the light—eight towering figures made of radiance and shadow. They stood in a circle, vast and unknowable, their presence pressing against my soul.
One stepped forward. A feminine form, glowing softly yet intensely.
"You are Jake Allan," she said. Her voice was a whisper threaded with thunder. "You have taken your own life."
"I… I couldn't go on," I whispered. My voice shook, thin and fragile. "My mother… she was all I had left."
Another figure spoke, colder. "Do you understand what you have done?"
"I had nothing," I said. "No family. No help. No hope."
Tears blurred my vision—strange, because I no longer had a body.
The central woman—Fanah—looked at me with a gaze both compassionate and piercing.
"We have seen your suffering. The torment. The loneliness. You endured what many could not."
Another voice layered over hers.
"And yet, you harmed no one."
A third voice sounded stern. "Millions suffer and still choose life. To abandon yours is to leave the balance incomplete."
One figure leaned forward, voice softer. "But your heart remained pure. Even in despair, you carried no malice."
I swallowed hard, emotion choking me. "I… I tried. I really did."
Fanah raised a hand.
"For that reason, for the strength and goodness you retained despite everything, you will be given another chance."
My breath caught. "A… second chance?"
"It is not a reward," she said. "It is a trial. A path for growth, pain, and purpose."
Another figure added, "You will return stripped of all you know—small, fragile, and new."
"You will begin life again," Fanah said gently. "Choose better. Grow stronger. Become more."
Light swirled around me, pulling me in.
My memories dissolved, my pain fading like mist.
I drifted into nothingness.
When I opened my eyes again, everything was new.
Blinding light.
Huge shapes.
Warm hands.
Soft cloth brushing my skin.
The scent of earth, fire, and a woman's gentle fragrance.
Hands lifted me, cradling me close.
"You're awake!" a woman exclaimed, her voice filled with warmth and relief.
A deeper voice followed. "Easy now. You're safe."
A small giggle chimed beside me. "He's tiny! He's so cute!"
I tried to speak, but only a faint breath escaped. My limbs twitched helplessly—tiny, weak, unfamiliar.
I was… a newborn.
Completely helpless.
Completely dependent.
Completely alive.
"You're ours now," the woman whispered, pressing her forehead against mine. "We'll take care of you. Always."
The man lifted me gently, and I felt the solid, comforting weight of his hand supporting my back.
"Welcome to the world, little one."
The small girl leaned closer, her breath warm against my cheek. "I'm Lila! I'm your big sister now!"
Their voices wrapped around me like a blanket.
For the first time in years, I felt warmth.
I felt belonging.
I felt… loved.
Time passed—hours or days, I couldn't tell. Newborns don't understand time; they only feel warmth, hunger, comfort, and touch.
The woman—my new mother—held me close almost constantly. Her voice was a quiet melody, soothing even when I didn't understand the words.
"Shh… it's alright. Mama's here," she would whisper, rocking me in a woven sling.
I felt her heartbeat, steady and strong.
I felt the rhythm of her breathing.
I smelled herbs and cooked food and the faint scent of flowers in her clothing.
I didn't know why these sensations comforted me, but they did. My tiny body curled against her automatically, guided by instinct.
The man—my father—handled me with surprising gentleness despite his broad, calloused hands.
"There you go," he'd murmur. "Easy now. You're safe."
His voice was reassurance. Solid. Warm.
Lila was endlessly excited. She poked my cheeks, grabbed my tiny hands, and jumped around the room with unfiltered joy.
"He squeezed my finger again!" she shouted one morning. "He likes me!"
Her energy filled the room like sunlight.
Her laughter softened something inside me.
Even though I didn't have words yet, even though my body was fragile and uncoordinated, I felt their love like a blanket wrapped around my new life.
And somewhere deep inside, buried beneath layers of infant fog and forgotten pain, my past self—Jake Allan—stirred quietly, watching.
Even in my new life, instinctive echoes remained—faint scars of my past. A reflexive flinch when someone moved too quickly. A sudden fear when voices grew loud. The ache of loss lingering like a phantom.
But my new family erased those shadows bit by bit.
My mother hummed softly as she fed me, her fingers brushing my cheek. "You'll grow strong," she whispered. "We'll make sure of it."
My father kissed the top of my head, a rare but deeply comforting gesture. "You have nothing to fear here."
Lila's face appeared in front of mine constantly, her eyes bright with excitement. "I'm gonna teach you everything! You'll be the strongest little brother ever!"
Their words filled the cracks inside me—cracks I didn't know existed until something finally began healing them.
Night after night, I slept in warmth, wrapped in blankets woven by my mother, lulled by the crackling fire and quiet voices.
For the first time in two lifetimes, I felt safe.
One evening, lying in the sling beside the fire, a strange feeling washed over me—an ache that wasn't pain, but something older. Something deep.
I didn't know it then, but that ache was the first spark of resolve.
The echo of Jake Allan's suffering whispered a truth:
This life will not break you.
Not again.
I drifted in gentle warmth.
And for the first time since my mother's death in my past life…
I felt peace.
Morning light streamed through the small window of our home. The mother leaned over me, brushing my forehead with gentle fingers.
"Good morning, little one," she said. "Did you sleep well?"
My father chuckled as he handed Lila her bowl of porridge. "Look at him. He's already ready for the day."
Lila tapped my tiny nose. "I'll teach you everything! Promise!"
And wrapped in their voices, I felt hope blossoming.
A second chance.
A new beginning.
A world where love existed.
For now, this was enough.
But deep within the fragile walls of my newborn body, a question whispered…
But will it last?