Our First Mistake (3,000 BC)

A Neolithic tale of rage, redemption, and the strength to heal, where the first mistake becomes the first step toward understanding.

EVOLVΞ is an ongoing story told out of order. Each vignette stands alone,
but together they form something greater.

The hut was small, its walls cracked and uneven, letting in slivers of light that traced slow lines across the dirt. The air inside was thick, laced with woodsmoke and earth. Stillness lived here. Not peace. The kind that settles after something breaks.

The girl sat cross-legged on the floor, her back hunched, her hair falling into her face as she stared down at her hands.

She was nearly grown, or so they said—old enough to carry a bundle for fire, yet too young to carry what she'd done.

One hand trembled slightly, her fingers curled around a jagged shard of pottery she had smashed earlier.

She had nothing left. No words. Not even the strength it took to—
Her breath came in shallow bursts. The thought rolled around in her head,
still unfinished.
Unending still.

The silence was broken only by the occasional creak of the walls in the wind.
She was muttering to herself in a rhythm that mirrored the pounding of her heart.

Snap.

A memory crashed into her in a rush of waves, sharp and visceral.
A scream rang out—high-pitched and panicked—the other girl’s voice.
Her arm twisted unnaturally, the bone jutting out beneath taut skin.

The girl saw herself standing there, fists clenched, her own breath ragged, and her chest igniting with something she didn’t have the words for.
Rage. Shame. Defiance. And something else. Something endless in her gut.
The faces around her—villagers’ wide eyes and gaping mouths—blurred into haze.
She had turned and fled before she could see their faces—before she could hear their words.

The pottery shard slipped from her hand. She couldn’t hear it when it hit the dirt floor. Her other hand shot to her head, gripping a fistful of her hair as she rocked back and forth, biting her lip to keep the sound inside.

The flashes wouldn’t stop.

The sound of her own voice shouting.
The other girl’s shriek.
The sickening crack of bone.
The weight of it all pressed on her chest. Suffocating.

Then—
A knock came at the door.
It was soft but firm, a deliberate interruption. The girl froze.
Her body tensed as if bracing for another blow.
She didn’t answer.

The door creaked open, spilling a slant of pale light into the hut. The elder stepped inside, her figure tall and shadowed against the brightness. Her face was lined with age, and the kindness in her eyes was not a weakness. She carried a bundle wrapped in cloth under her arm.

“You’ve been in here long enough,” the elder said, as she closed the door behind her, sealing them in the dimness.

The girl didn’t move. Her fingers loosened their grip on her hair but remained in her lap, trembling slightly. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor.

The elder lowered herself to sit across from the girl, the cloth bundle resting in her lap. For a long moment, she said nothing, letting the silence do the speaking. Then she unwrapped the cloth, revealing a bundle of etched bark, carefully dried and cared for.

“This was given to me when I was your age,” the elder began. “I didn’t understand it then. Not all of it. But it’s time you read it.”

The girl glanced up, her eyes darting to the rungs of bark but quickly retreating. Her expression buckled, shifting through emotions, until she shook her head. “I don’t deserve it,” she muttered.

“You don’t have to deserve it,” the elder replied, with warmth. “You need it.”

She placed the sheets of bark gently on the floor between them.

The girl’s gaze lingered on them, the cracked edges and carved letters seeming to pulse with a life of their own. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the fragile strip of bark on top.

“Do you know what strength is?” the elder asked, her eyes steady on the girl’s face.

The girl shook her head, her fingers hovering over the sheets. “It’s… protecting what matters. Fighting.” Her voice wavered, uncertain even as she spoke the words.

The elder leaned forward, her own hands resting lightly on her knees. “Strength is knowing when to fight, yes. But it’s also knowing how to fight. When to stop. When to listen. When to let go.”

The girl’s breath caught in her throat. She looked up, meeting the elder’s eyes for the first time. The frustration in her eyes softened, replaced by the vague shape of some distant understanding.

“Read,” the elder said, nodding toward the histories made of wood.
“Start with the story of my first mistake. It’s there, in those words. You’ll see that I wasn’t always like this.”

She paused.
Her gaze drifted for a moment, reaching for something—lost in the memory, or making new ones.
Then, her voice softened.
“Even now, there are moments I forget… that healing is strength.”

She nodded to the sheets, encouraging the girl to begin.

The girl picked up the top sheet, her fingers nervous as they lifted it. Her eyes scanned the uneven etchings, and the words blurred slightly as tears welled in her eyes. The elder remained silent, watching as the girl began to read, her shoulders slowly relaxing as the story expanded in her hands.

Outside, the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the village…

The girl read on. The elder’s presence was an anchor to the storm inside her.
For the first time in days, the chaos inside began to still…

Some time later, the girl stood in the doorway of her hut, the bundle clutched tightly in her hands. The elder’s words held still in her mind, but it was the story—the elder’s story—that pulled her forward. She glanced over her shoulder, meeting the elder’s steady expression—those kind eyes that held so much strength. The older woman gave a small nod of silent encouragement.

With a deep breath, the girl stepped out into the twilight.

The village buzzed softly with the sounds of the evening: distant voices, the crackle of a fire, the rhythmic clatter of tools. She moved toward the gathering place, her steps hesitant but purposeful.

The other girl sat near the edge of the group, her arm wrapped in a rough splint. Her face was drawn, but her eyes flicked upward as the girl approached.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The noise of the village seemed to fade away,
leaving only the fragile tension between them.

The girl knelt slowly, setting the bundle down beside her. She reached out, her hand hovering near the other girl’s splint… for less than a breath, she hesitated, uncertain. But, she pressed her palm lightly against the rough binding, fingers barely grazing the wound beneath. Her lips parted, but no words came. Only the weight of her presence. The unspoken apology in her touch: warm, real.

The other girl’s eyes softened. She shifted slightly, her uninjured hand rising to cover the girl’s.
Her palm was cool from the night air, her skin rough with dust and dirt.
But there was a warmth beneath it—one that didn’t come from heat.

Their fingers entwined briefly.
And in that small, quiet gesture, the divide between them began to close.

Behind them, the elder watched from a distance.

The girl turned her head slightly, her gaze meeting the elder’s once more.
This time, her eyes held a new resolve.

The elder smiled.
The very same flame now flickered in the girl’s eyes.
It no longer burned.
It shone.
It illuminated.

12,000 BC | 3,000 BC | 2020 | 2033

---

EVOLVΞ | [ 2D ]

[ Every moment—past or future—is happening now. ]
An ongoing story told out of order. Each vignette stands alone,
but together they form something greater.
EVOLVΞ is a shifting mosaic of memory and possibility,
revealing itself piece by piece...

---