This book is a work of fiction. And yet, like all stories that last, it is shaped by echoes from places older than written memory.

 

In the Hebrew Bible, in Isaiah 34:14, a single name appears, untranslated in many versions: “Lilith.” .לִ ילִ ית :Hebrew 

Some call her a night demon. Others, a wild spirit. One who makes her home where desolation reigns.

 

And then, in Genesis, we are given two creation stories:  In Genesis 1:27, God creates both male and female—at once, in His image. But in Genesis 2, a second account appears. This time, the woman—Eve—is fashioned from Adam’s rib. This curious doubling has been pondered by rabbis, mystics, and seekers for centuries.

 

And somewhere in the cracks between these verses, a question rises: What if there was someone before Eve? Lilith’s story does not appear in the canonical Bible, but it thrives in Jewish folklore, medieval texts like the Alphabet of Ben Sira, and in the mystical writings of the Zohar and Kabbalah. She is called the first wife of Adam—equal, willful, and unwilling to be made less. When she refused to submit, she left Eden of her own accord. For this, she was erased. Demonized. Feared. And later—remembered. 

 

This novel reimagines that myth—not as a tale of rebellion for its own sake, but as one of choice, grief, exile, and fire. It is a story about what happens when someone walks away from a paradise that demands silence—and what might grow in the wilderness where no one is meant to survive. I do not claim this is how it happened. But I believe it is a truth worth telling. Because sometimes, fiction carries a torch into the rooms history has left in shadow. And in that fire, maybe—just maybe—we see ourselves.