Leo's mind jerked awake—not with the groggy haze of sleep, but with the sharp, nauseating clarity of someone who had just been violently yanked back into consciousness.
Before panic could take root, fragmented memories flickered through his thoughts like a broken film reel: the wet sock underfoot, the way his balance had betrayed him, the sickening lurch as he fell—and then the pain.
White-hot, blinding. The jagged edge of the shoe rack's metal support, jutting out like a rusted spear, punching through the back of his head with grotesque ease.
He cringed, his phantom nerves flaring at the memory.
Then it clicked.
Wait. Aren't I supposed to be dead?
The thought slithered through his mind, cold and insistent. His heart—no, not his heart, because hearts didn't beat after the brain had been skewered like a kebab—something twisted inside him. How the hell was he still thinking? How was he even aware enough to question it?
A soft pop echoed in his ear, like the sound of a bubble bursting underwater. His eyelids—when had he closed them?—flickered open.
Darkness. Not the empty void of nothingness, but a thick, cloying blackness that pressed in on him from all sides. And then, as if sensing his awareness, it shifted.
He waited to rise—or fall—but nothing came. Instead, his body—or whatever it was his soul was in was floating.
The realization hit him like a second stab wound: he was curled inside something—no, encased in something. As his vision settled on the silky substance around him.
His breath—did he still breathe?—hitched. The walls around him were smooth but yielding, like the inside of a leather sack lined with damp silk.
What the fuck? This wasn't the afterlife.
Had death always been this… tactile?
Or—a worse thought slithered into his mind.
Had he not died at all? The cocoon pulsed around him, as if in answer.
The darkness seemed to press around him, sticky and claustrophobic. He thrashed instinctively, limbs—did he even have limbs?—meeting resistance. A crack split the air, thin light bleeding through as the cocoon around him fractured.
Light and sharp air seeped through the fissure.
Shoving his surprise to the back of his mind, he pushed again, another splintering sound followed, and suddenly—cold air mixed with a bright overlap of colours flooded his senses.
Leo tumbled forward, limbs flailing, and landed in a heap. Disoriented, he lifted his head… and saw them. Wings—delicate, iridescent, still damp and crumpled from confinement. As naturally as movement came, the wings twitched, his wings twitched, in time with the frantic hammering of his pulse.
Staring at the twitching wings, his nonexistent lips twitched—a butterfly.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
The absurdity of it punched a hysterical laugh out of him. Of all the things—of course he'd reincarnate as something with a lifespan shorter than a grocery list.
Reincarnation was one thing. He'd read enough stories to expect a second chance—maybe as a sword-wielding hero, a cunning rogue, or even the damned Demon King himself. But a butterfly? What kind of cosmic joke was this?
Well, he thought, watching his wings slowly unfurl in the sunlight, at least the colors are nice.
A shadow fell over him the next instant. Looking up, he saw three butterflies circling above in erratic loops, their movements too synchronized to be random.
Their wings catching the light in dazzling patterns. The largest of them who he assumed was the leader, was a garish specimen with blue, peacock-feather markings—fluttered closer.
"Oi!" it—no, he—shouted, voice oddly crisp for something without vocal cords. "Looks like someone's just learning to fly!"
Leo stared at his own wings, still half-folded. No shit, Sherlock.
A fourth butterfly, smaller with azure wings brushed pink at the edges, shoved between them. "Lay off him, Chad," a female chiding voice drifted out of it—no her, tone sharp. "He's a spawn."
Chad—because of course that was his name—flapped his wings indignantly. "When I was his age, I could already fly circles around the elder grove!"
The female's antennae twitched. "Well, not everyone's born a douchebag like you."
With a final scoff, Chad and his peacock-boy entourage flitted away, leaving Leo alone with his apparent defender.
He flexed his wings experimentally, still trying to process the absurdity of the situation. "You can talk?"
The female let out a sound like wind chimes—laughter, he realized. "Of course we can talk," she said, tilting her head. "How else would we communicate? Morse code? I'm Cristie by the way."
Leo opened his mouth—did butterflies have mouths?—then shut it as she fluttered closer. "There, there, youngling. It'll be okay."
Youngling? His nonexistent lips twitched. "Lady, I've lived longer than your species' entire family tree. Heck, even a butterfly immortal would call me granddad
Cristie lifted into the air, sunlight glinting off the edges of her wings. "Come on, then. First flight's the hardest."
Leo flapped once, twice—then lurched sideways, crashing into a leaf. Gritting his metaphorical teeth, he tried again.
This time, the air caught beneath his wings, buoying him upward. Staring at the grass patches waving past him, Leo's felt his pulse hammering in his ears from the thrill of flight
Seconds later, a vineyard vast as his eyes could see unfurled below: a riot of blossoms, dew-kissed petals, a free rot and wilt and a winding stone paths.
"Beautiful, right?" Christie's voice cut through his awe. "Too bad Mr. Samson's selling it."
"The vineyard—Why?"
"Vineyard—so that's what it's called," Cristie said, then, her wings curling up to mimic a shrug. "Beats me."
"Can we uhm... Understand humans?" Leo asked.
"No we don't." Cristie answered in a slightly exasperated voice.
"Then how do you know he plans to sell the vineyard?"
Gesturing at the group of men sporting orange vests and green hardhats, Cristie replied, "By thinking. Those men don't look like—"
Pointing at the other side of the field at workers carrying baskets tipped to the brim with grapes. "—these ones. And they don't do the same thing. These ones carry grapes and those one—well I don't actually understand what they do."
Growing tired of talking, Cristie picked up speed. "Are all younglings this clueless?" she muttered, thinking she was out of earshot. Leo, of course, heard every word.
First of all, harsh. Secondly, I'm not clueless okay... just jaded.
Leo wobbled midair, his wings still unsteady as he caught up to Cristie alighting on a broad hibiscus petal—its vibrant red edges curling slightly in the morning sun.
He recognized it instantly; in his past-life, his apartment had a sad potted one that never bloomed. The irony wasn't lost on him.
"What are you doing?" he called out, hovering awkwardly like a malfunctioning drone.
Cristie's antennae twitched. She exhaled—a sound so distinctly weary it reminded Leo of his old coworker forced to explain spreadsheets to the new intern for the third time. "Breakfast," she said, voice flat. "What does it look like?"
Lowering her proboscis, she began sipping nectar with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times before. Leo drifted closer, his own stomach—did butterflies even have stomachs?—giving a phantom grumble.
A strange thought crossed his mind as he watched her: How many times do butterflies eat in a day? The question felt absurd, but then again, so did existence itself right now.
Cristie paused, sensing his stare. "You planning to watch all day," she said, "or are you going to eat?"
Leo glanced at the hibiscus. The flower's center glistened with droplets of nectar, tiny and golden. Tentatively, he uncurled his proboscis—a sensation like flexing a muscle he'd never known he had—and dipped it toward the bloom.
The taste hit him like a sugar rush. Sweet, almost too sweet, but with an underlying freshness that made his wings flutter involuntarily.
*"See?" Cristie said smugly. "Not so hard."
Leo pulled back, wiping his proboscis. "Do we, uh… do this all day?"
She gave him a look that screamed obviously. "Unless you'd rather starve."
A breeze ruffled the petals, sending them both bobbing gently. Somewhere beyond the vineyard, the distant hum of machinery growled—a reminder of the looming threat the female had mentioned earlier.
Leo hesitated. "So. About this 'Mr. Samson' selling the place…"
Cristie's wings stiffened. "Eat first," she muttered. "Existential crises later."
Nodding, Leo dipped back his proboscis into the petal. After about three minutes, he pulled out. His stomach weighing down like stone plunging into a river.
Watching Leo lift up awkwardly, Cristie said in between bell like laughs. "For a youngling—you sure do eat a lot."
Chuckling wryly, Leo fluttered closer, his wings catching the morning light. "Cristie," he began, "about the vineyard problem—what's really going to happen?"
She flicked a wing, the motion sharp, producing a sound like paper being snapped taut. "Well, there's not much we can do with this body."
Her antennae twitched as they approached the distant rows of grapevines, their leaves trembling in the breeze. "Besides, you needn't worry. The elders are already scouting migration routes."
Leo's wings stilled. Migration—the word carried a weight he hadn't expected. It meant leaving—this vineyard, these flowers, the only place he'd known in this fragile new existence.
"What if that doesn't go as planned?" he pressed.
Cristie didn't answer immediately. Instead, she lifted into the air, her wings catching the light in a ripple of blue and pink. "Then we adapt," she said simply. "Either way, fretting won't change the outcome."
For a creature so small, her pragmatism was almost brutal. Leo watched her soar higher, toward the canopy where sunlight dappled through the leaves.