The sun stood high in the sky, and the village had reached its daily peak.
Men were tilling fields or hauling fishing nets from the sea; women were hanging laundry or weaving baskets from palm fronds; even the children were absorbed in play, running and shrieking with joy.
Amidst all this clamoring that filled the horizon…
"Cheeeeeep!"
The sound came from beneath an ancient palm at the edge of the village, where a small nest lay almost hidden among roots and grass. A tiny chick, barely able to stand, was crying out with all its might.
"Cheeeeeep!"
No one heard him. No one even noticed he was there.
'To whoever's listening out there! Prime rooster meat for sale!'
"Cheep!"
'Okay… not prime meat yet. But feed me a little… and you'll be amazed at the result!'
Nair kept shouting, his voice drowned in the children's screams, the women's calls, and the rustle of the trees.
"Cheep!"
'Give me a handful of barley… and I'll pack a family meal for five!'
"Cheep!"
'Invest in me now before prices go up!'
"Cheep!"
'Think about it: no upkeep costs, no union demands—just one beak-full of grain a day!'
"Cheep!"
'I'm a mobile food-security plan on two legs! Small size… rapid growth… easy seasoning!'
"Cheep!"
'Imagine me in just six months… you'll regret not feeding me from day one!'
"Cheep!"
'Take me now… feed me later… then feast on me eventually!'
Nair pitched himself like a young rooster landing the deal of a lifetime with human capitalists—even as his body shook with hunger.
"Cheep!"
'Secure your food future! I'm your portable poultry investment!'
He paused briefly…
'Do people need suits and ties to be taken seriously these days?!'
'Let's rest a bit now…'
Nair thought as he sat, exhausted from his fifth round of nonstop chirping. He'd planned since morning to use a "chirp-and-rest" system—shout, then pause—to preserve his voice, which was never very strong to begin with.
Now, at midday, nobody had come. No creature, no human, not even a curious hen. Just a little chick chirping in the shadows like a performer delivering an impassioned speech to an empty auditorium.
'That was round five… I feel like I just left the opera.'
If only he had a towel, he'd wipe his brow. If only he had a chair, he'd collapse into it like an actor after an unappreciated masterpiece.
'Well… the audience is silent. Clearly they're stunned by my performance.'
He lifted his head proudly:
'Mark my words… though I'm just a chick now, I will be the undefeated rooster! King of all roosters! My crow will shake the palm fronds!'
He fell silent for a moment, then…
'Aah… I'm hungry.'
He dropped his head again, deflated like a punctured balloon. But his empty stomach wouldn't let him stay lost in daydreams. It forced him fully awake.
'I think I'll die before I become a rooster…'
Nair sighed, staring up through the palm fronds at the sky.
'I was sure I'd grow into a handsome rooster like Jack…'
He pictured himself strutting like a documentary star of luxury poultry: gleaming feathers, confident gait, bright red comb waving in the breeze—and a crowd of hens clucking and applauding?
Jack… his dear friend and the finest rooster he'd ever known in his past life. An icon, a legend, the role model for anyone wanting to be a "true rooster." And Nair was convinced he would be a rooster too. No argument. No other option. He had been a young man before—he would not accept the cosmic tragedy of being reborn as a hen.
'I'm a rooster, definitely. No debate. That's my fate, that's justice.'
He shivered at the mere thought of being a hen. No… impossible. He had accepted everything: losing his life, crossing into an unknown world, losing his human body, becoming a little chick, living under a mother who ignored him… all that was bearable—
But to be a hen? No. That was the only red line in his list of acceptances.
'If that happens… then all I can do is wait for my next life's experience.'
Still, he gathered his strength and told himself:
'No… it's far too early to give up. I still have at least one more chirp in me before I lose consciousness.'
'I mustn't disappoint Jack…'
Nair sighed in silence, picturing the scene as if he could see it with his own eyes: morning sun glinting off his glossy red feathers, striding across gravel with model-like poise in some international rooster showcase, a breeze rippling in his wake, his comb swaying in the wind, and everyone parting before him.
'Jack…'
That rooster was his dear friend. Jack wasn't just any rooster—he was an institution. He knew exactly when to crow, how to stand atop the fence like a general reviewing his troops, and how to cast that sidelong glance that melted hens' hearts. Even the farm's dog cowered at the sound of his call. Once, Nair watched Jack look at a duck so commanding that she laid five eggs at once.
'He had charisma, a full mane of feathers, and a deep voice… that crow that shook the palm fronds!'
Then Nair exhaled:
'I'm not asking for much—just half of Jack's handsomeness… or a quarter. Or at least a comb that doesn't flop in my face every time.'
And yet, he was utterly convinced he was a rooster, not a hen. It felt completely natural. He'd been a young man before, his spirit one hundred percent masculine—it was impossible that such a spirit had been planted in a hen's body.
'I'm a rooster. Case closed. That's basic respect for the crossing-over process.'
He suddenly shivered at the mere thought of being a hen—imagining himself in that fate…
"Cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck-KAAACK!"
He trembled at the thought of laying an egg.
'No… impossible… impossible!'
He nearly fainted from fear.
'If that happens… then all I can do is wait for my next life's experience—hopefully a cat this time. At least cats eat and sleep; they don't lay eggs!'
Nair felt a fierce resolve toward that idea: he wouldn't hesitate to abandon this life if he wasn't a rooster.
'No… still too early to surrender.'
He rallied himself again, steeling his resolve for the sixth round of chirping.
'Let's begin round six…'
He drew a deep breath and let fly from his little throat:
"Cheeeeep! Cheeep! Cheeep!"
'Any hens looking for a mate? Before you stand the perfect eligible bachelor rooster!'
"Cheep! Cheep!"
'I've got excellent genes—my offspring will be as delicious as me!'
"Cheeeeeep!"
'Even if you're not patient… my size now lets you eat me in one bite!'
At first, he chirped in hopes of a human hearing him. But when no one responded, he targeted predators instead:
'Who knows, maybe someone will carry me to a place with food… or eat me on the spot. Either way beats dying slowly of hunger.'
Then he thought with grim realism:
'I just hope they eat me in one go…'
He considered fluttering his wings to draw attention, but then thought:
'No point wasting energy…'
Then he looked on the bright side:
'Well, I can call this training.'
This was the first day Nair had tried using his voice seriously. In the past three days, he had seldom chirped— for many reasons: he didn't want to draw attention, he didn't want to disturb the hen, and simply he wasn't yet accustomed to this body. In the beginning, it felt odd: though the sound came from him, it didn't feel like his own.
But today, he had found a purpose for every cheep.
And to make matters worse, he wasn't able to speak.
He tested this himself on his second day when he tried to utter a single word.
He tried everything:
English, Spanish, Japanese, Chinese… every language he knew or only knew a few words of, even some phrases from tongues he didn't know how they reached his mind… or other animal sounds—anything but chirping.
But except for "Cheeep," nothing coherent came out.
Not because he'd forgotten how to speak, but because his body simply wouldn't allow it.
His only voice was:
"A chick's cheep."
After finishing his sixth round of marketing chirps, Nair slowly crawled to the familiar shaded corner of the nest—his usual refuge whenever he could no longer stand. There were no cushions or comforts; just stiff straw.
Yet he forced himself to fold his small body carefully: tucking his feet beneath his belly, leaning slightly to one side, then resting his heavy head on his feather-covered chest. A posture his human mind had never known, but the only one available for rest now.
He sat there in silence, watching the empty space around him.
No one.
Except the mother hen, barely moving, and scattered bits of straw as if a battle had erupted here and everyone had departed.
'Day four… and I'm still alone.'
He slowly raised his eyes toward the empty edges of the nest. No movement, no chirps heralding new life—just the hen and the eggs beneath her. One of them should have hatched by now; at least one sibling. But the nest had been silent since his own emergence.
Since the second day, when he noticed how small his body was compared to what he knew of chicks, doubts had begun to whisper in his mind. It didn't take much thought to realize something in his growth hadn't gone as it should. His body was unnervingly delicate, his limbs trembling at the slightest touch, and his down so sparse it scarcely warmed a single claw—so much so that a stray breeze one night nearly sent him into an eternal contemplation.
None of this matched the chicks he knew.
He had seen chicks before. Jack, for example. Yes, Jack—his dear friend, all full plumage and a voice fit only for a morning news anchor on the poultry market. Jack had been raised by him when he himself was a chick, and he knew exactly what a normal chick looked like. From the moment he hatched, Jack had resembled a plump brown feather-ball, as if set to "full mode," whereas he? He looked more like a damp cotton swab spun out of an incomplete wash cycle.
Although Jack was hardly the best comparison—since, frankly, he had never been an ordinary chick but rather a marketing poster for perfect genes—merely recalling the other chicks he had known before was enough to confirm his suspicions. A simple comparison would suffice: he lacked their size, their rounded bodies, and that full downy coat that makes chicks seem ready for a stroll… from day one.
He then guessed that he had hatched prematurely, perhaps two or three days early—an entirely logical and fitting explanation for many of his symptoms.
Don't underestimate a day or two when it comes to chick hatching. Chicks normally hatch on day twenty-one; each day before that is a decisive margin in development. A chick hatching on day twenty, for instance, is much like a human baby born in the eighth month: underweight and weak, but likely to survive.
Day nineteen is equivalent to the seventh month… that is where the critical zone begins.
Given his frail body, trembling limbs, sparse down, and ragged breathing, he concluded that he must have hatched on day twenty—or perhaps on day nineteen.
If that was true, his situation resembled a human infant born in the seventh month, with all the attendant risks and developmental delays.
But… today was the fourth day since his hatching, and no other chick had emerged.
And here lay the harshest truth. There was no avoiding the admission: he had entered the world on day eighteen… or maybe even a day earlier—making him extraordinarily rare, teetering on the edge of viability.
In simple terms, he had hatched at least four days before the others. Hatching at so early an age meant he had barely crossed the threshold of life—like a baby born in the sixth month, dragged into the world still underdeveloped. Had he come out any earlier, it would have been fatal, and his body might never have managed to breathe at all.
Such a thought was not only alarming… it was humiliating. He had arrived before his time, unprepared, lacking in feathers, strength, or balance. He had come out weak, lost, crying into the void as if begging life for an extension it no longer granted.
Because had he waited just a day or two, he might have emerged stronger, fully feathered, with a chirp unlike the choking gasps he issued now.
But no… he had hatched early, hatched frail, hatched alone.
What deepened his doubts was that strange sensation he still could not forget. Just before hatching, everything around him had spun like a hellish swing—an abrupt motion, like a runaway roller coaster.
'Perhaps the egg had fallen? Or been kicked? Or… jolted violently?'
Whatever the cause, the result was the same: an accident, most likely, had forced his early hatching.
And such a notion was not only terrifying but deeply unsettling—because if he had remained in the egg for a few more days, he might have entered life prepared, with shoulders of down and lungs that didn't make every chirp a brush with death. Instead, he was living every moment behind schedule. Even his calls required warming up—and sometimes two gasps instead of one.
Those few days he had been deprived of were enough to set him back several stages:
His body was slender and weak, even compared with chicks freshly hatched; he could barely stabilize his head when walking. The downy layer covering his body was thin and damp beyond necessity, offering neither warmth nor protection from cold, as if it were a promise unfulfilled. His reactions were slow and hesitant, as though his nervous system was still learning to operate itself.
It was clear: something had driven him from the egg before his time. Perhaps the egg fell. Perhaps the nest shook. Or maybe the mother hen had accidentally knocked him out without noticing.
It can be argued that other factors might explain why he was the only chick to hatch first—rather than why he hatched early.
Perhaps his egg was laid days before the others, or it was the only fertilized one to begin with. But such explanations are rare, unlikely, and alone cannot justify what happened.
They simply do not explain how he emerged from the egg so fragile. His premature hatching is an inescapable fact; his solitary emergence adds a baffling layer to the mystery.
Whatever the cause, the outcome is as clear as day: he hatched too early… and alone.
And this was no fleeting suspicion but a firm conviction built on extensive knowledge and field experience not to be underestimated.
He had raised Jack when Jack was just a chick, and he knew exactly—down to encyclopedic detail—what a normal chick looks like in its first days. In fact, his "care" for Jack was no mere emotional bond or brotherly instinct but a life-defining project—let's call it a completed PhD thesis in applied chick science, with honors for dedication!
When Jack hatched, Nair did not treat him like an ordinary chick. No—Jack was a threatened artifact, or a mythical creature to be preserved by any means.
Nair didn't rely solely on superficial or intuitive knowledge of poultry; he launched an intense educational campaign akin to an international chick-rearing certification course.
He read every text he could find, studied the behaviors of all chicken breeds, memorized feed formulas, nest types, and the characteristics of every egg—from local to organic free-range.
But he didn't stop with chickens. His scientific ambitions extended to ducks, geese, pigeons, parrots, even birds-of-paradise in tropical forests… for he believed a simple yet fundamental motto: "Knowledge can never harm, but ignorance might leave Jack cold!" He said it in a solemn tone, as if Jack's life depended on it every moment.
He treated Jack as though he were a strategic national project: a rare creature whose genes might harbor lost traits worth analyzing. He created a care schedule as rigorous as a NASA program, with timed warming sessions, feeding times, and slots for positive motivational talks—because "emotional nurturing" was as vital as nutrition!
He memorized the exact ideal temperatures to a decimal, learned the standard hourly weight gain for a chick, tracked the growth and density of down as if observing a rare plant under a microscope.
He even devoured a lengthy article on the difference between a duck's waddle and a goose's gait, just in case Jack's genes surprised him with webbed feet!
Thus, even without seeing his own full body, he needed no scale, no mirror, no lab. He knew—like a researcher who wrote the reference books himself—that what he felt was far from normal. His weight didn't match his age, his down was sparse and damp, his reflexes slow, even his voice rang wrong. He had studied normal chick development—and now, quite simply, he was not that.
What he saw and felt violated every healthy standard he knew—from books, from observation, and from his own heart that had taught Jack to fluff his feathers under the warm lamp as though the world were safe so long as he slept beside him.
If there were an award for Substitute Brother of the Year in the chicken world, Nair would be first in line—at least in the world he came from.
Jack, even in his bulk today, had been proportionate, vigorous, with a thick down coat. Nair? He seemed like half a chick—baked only halfway through.
'It's biological, not a delusion.'
He closed his eyes—or tried to. Sleep did not come easily with hunger, cold, and loneliness gnawing at him, but at least… he was in his safe corner.
'Maybe if I had hatched on time… everything would be different.'
He glanced at the mother hen again. She did not stir. She did not look at him.
'Life's so unfair… When I was human, I kept Jack warm, fed him, protected him from the cold—and this is what I get? Not even a glance?'
'I always feel like an unfinished egg project.'
He blinked at the mother hen, then turned his gaze away, half in resignation, half in defiance.
'But that's okay… an unfinished project? Fine—I'll be a great project.'
He sighed a long, dramatic sigh, then stretched out on the straw again.
'Now… a little rest before round seven.'