I Was Reborn in Flames but Never Left the Fire

Let Me Tell You a Story You’ll Never Forget

I was born for the third time on a night of red skies and black screams.

In my village, we do not fear death. We expect it. Welcome it, even. Because here, death is never the end. We are reborn through fire every hundred years. It's our curse. Or blessing. It depends on who you ask.

But I am not like the others.

Because I remember.

Ashes That Breathe Again

The elders say the fire chooses. That it selects which souls return, renewed and cleansed. When the Rebirth Flame blooms once every century at the center of the forest, the air smells like burnt honey and roses rotting under the sun.

We gather in silence. One by one, the chosen step into the flame.

And they come out screaming.

Not from pain. From memory. The flame burns away our sins, our minds, our past lives until we're blank again.

But not me.

My First Death Was Merciful

I died the first time at age twelve. Drowned in the well trying to rescue a neighbor’s child. People cried. My mother wailed. My father built a shrine with my toys.

I was reborn the next cycle as a butcher’s son.

No memories.

Just flashes. Blood. Steel. The taste of raw marrow.

The second time I died at thirty-four. Slit my own throat after three nights of dreams that ended with fire. I was terrified of something I didn’t understand.

That’s when I came back wrong.

The Third Rebirth

It happened two weeks ago.

I stepped into the flame like the rest. I expected the fire to wash me clean like before.

Instead, it opened my mind like a book soaked in gasoline.

I remembered everything.

Both my past lives. The well. The blade. The lies. The flame’s whispers.

And something else.

A voice behind the fire.

It spoke to me.

It still does.

Something’s Broken

They don’t know yet.

The villagers believe I came back pure. But I hear everything. I see what they forgot. I see the truth about our little village.

We are not reborn because we are special.

We are reborn because we are being fed to something ancient.

Something that wakes every hundred years. The fire isn’t cleansing us. It’s chewing us. And I was the one it couldn’t digest.

I’m Changing

My skin burns when it rains.

Mirrors fog when I walk by.

Animals avoid me.

And at night, I dream of standing inside the flame, looking out. Watching people walk into my arms.

I feel its hunger now. I know what it wants.

I know what I am becoming.

You Need to Listen

I don’t have long.

If you ever find this village, leave. Do not drink the water. Do not follow the lights in the forest. Do not speak to anyone who says they remember their past lives.

And for the love of everything good and living:

Do not go near the fire.

Because when the next cycle comes, and the sky turns red again...

I’ll be waiting.

And this time, I won't be the only one who remembers.