Chapter One: The Tree and the Choice
Before Eden knew sorrow, another conversation stirred its borders—one I did not hear, yet one whose shadow eventually lengthened across my life. Far beyond the garden's eastern light, where the veil between realms thins like the skin on cooling milk, the Serpent lifted his crowned head before Lucifer. Lucifer's eyes shone like embers cooling in ash.
"You asked for purpose," he murmured. "Here is one. You saw the humans—unmarked by fear, untouched by grief. They walk with Him, speak with Him, love Him without effort. It is unbearable." The Serpent straightened and relaxed, scales whispering like distant rain.
"I have watched them," he said. "The man listens. The woman wonders. She thinks like one who is almost awake."
Lucifer's smile sharpened. "Then wake her."
"Why her?" the Serpent asked, as if testing the weight of the plan. Lucifer's wings—once white as dawn—unfurled behind him like bruised storm clouds.
"Because she listens with her whole being. And whatever she receives, she shares. Through her, the world may shift." The Serpent tasted the air, tasting possibility.
"And if they fall?"
Lucifer's voice softened, almost tender. "Then they will know what we know—choice. And choice births consequences."
The Serpent bowed his head. "Then I will go."
And so, he came into the garden.
I remember the scent of Eden just before it happened. It was warm soil after rain, crushed mint bursting underfoot, bees humming like drowsy worshipers drunk on pomegranate. Nothing was ever silent there. The wind had a voice. The trees had laughter. And His footsteps in the cool of the day were the gentlest sound of all.
Adam and I lived like children who had never tasted denial. Hunger was a sweet ache before the next fig. Nakedness was the sun kissing our shoulders. Our love was simple, the way rivers love their banks—without question, without effort.
Then came the morning the Serpent found me alone by the Tree. He did not crawl. He rose, as though drawn upward by his own certainty. His coils shimmered like living bronze as he perched on a low branch, eyes too knowing for any creature.
"Woman," he said, as though greeting an equal. "A curious place to linger alone."
"I am not alone," I said lightly. "Adam is nearby."
"But Adam is not here," the Serpent replied. "And here is where the truth is." His gaze flicked to the branches above me.
"Tell me, did God really say you must not eat from any tree?"
I laughed, because the question felt absurd. "We may eat from every tree except this one. He said if we touch it, we die."
The Serpent tilted his head. "Die? Do you even know what that means?"
"I—" I hesitated. "No."
"Of course not," he said softly. "Because nothing you know has edges. No endings. No depth." His voice lowered to a whisper that felt like fingers trailing over my thoughts.
"You will not die. God knows that when you eat, your eyes will open. You will be like Him—knowing good and evil." Like Him. The words thrummed in my ribcage like a second heartbeat.
The Serpent then showed me in a glimpse the knowledge of good and evil. The knowledge of knowing without needing to learn. I would know pain without experiencing pain. Joy without experiencing joy. I would know without needing to be taught anything or experiencing.
"Why would He forbid that?" I asked myself more than him.
"Because He keeps you small," the Serpent answered. "Beautiful, yes, but blind. You were made last—does that not trouble you? That the man was taught the world while you were still breath unformed?"
I bristled. "Adam does not think me blind."
"Adam only knows what he has been told," the Serpent murmured. "Do you wish only to follow? Never to understand? Have you not seen what I have shown you? I can show you without me eating the fruit because I ate the fruit before."
"I was about to ask why you are offering me all this instead of you eating it yourself." I looked at the fruit. Its surface glowed faintly, as though it was lit from within. Beauty was common in Eden, but this—this held a promise deeper than taste.
"If I see what God sees," I whispered, "I must see it with Adam. We were made from one flesh."
The Serpent smiled without lips. "And does he hunger for knowledge? Or only for you?"
I stepped back, breath trembling. "You twist things."
"I reveal them," he said simply. Moving away from the tree.
The desire stirred in me—ancient, new, undeniable. Insight. Wisdom. Awakening.
So, I reached. I plucked. The fruit broke open beneath my teeth like a small thunderclap, and juice ran warm down my wrist. And the world opened. Suddenly I could see the thread of every possibility—life and loss, joy and burial, the first cradle and the first grave. I felt the weight of choice, the freedom of it, the terror. A twig cracked behind me. Adam.
He stared at me, his face caught between fear and yearning.
"Eve—what have you done?"
My hands shook as I held out the fruit, half-eaten and still glowing where my teeth had touched.
"This is not only mine," I said. "If I rise, I rise with you. If I fall, I fall with you. We began as one flesh. We cannot wake separately."
"Eve," he whispered, "I heard the serpent. His words—"
"His words were a door. I simply walked through it." I stepped closer. "Will you walk with me?"
He cupped my hand, his thumb brushing the juice on my wrist as though it were blood.
"Eve—if you saw something—something true—I will not let you stand alone in it." His voice broke. "I choose you."
And he took the fruit. He bit. In that shared bite, we chose each other over paradise. Suddenly, what I saw a few minutes ago was no more the moment Adam bit into the fruit. I realized instantly that I had been deceived.