The sun was lowering itself slowly behind the trees, spilling its last golden rays across the dusty path. The fields lay quiet, except for the faint hum of crickets and the rustle of wheat swaying in the breeze. And there, upon that path, walked an old man. His shoulders were bent beneath the weight of a bundle of sticks, tied together with fraying rope.

Every step he took seemed heavier than the last. His legs trembled; his back ached. Sweat slid down his wrinkled face, though the air was already cooling with evening. He sighed again and again, the sound of a man carrying not just sticks, but years upon his bones.

The old man’s name was Callus, though few remembered it. Once, in the bright summers of his youth, he had been strong, fast, and full of laughter. He had plowed fields, harvested grain, and even joined hunters on long chases through the forest. He had built a home with his own hands and filled it with children’s laughter. But time, as it always does, had stolen much away. His wife had long since been buried, his children grown and scattered to faraway villages, his friends gone to rest. What remained was only Callus, his small hut, and the endless labor of gathering sticks for firewood.

That evening, as he trudged beneath his bundle, his heart groaned as much as his body. “What a weary life this is,” he muttered. “Every day the same, every step harder than before. Would that Death would come and take me away! Better to rest in the earth than to suffer this endless toil.”

The words escaped his mouth like a prayer—or perhaps a curse. He did not think much of them. They were the kind of bitter words an old man might whisper to the wind, expecting no answer. But the forest, it seemed, had been listening.

The air grew still. The crickets stopped their song. The breeze that had cooled his sweat went suddenly silent. Callus paused, frowning. “Strange… too quiet.” He set his bundle down and wiped his brow.

And then, from the shadows of the trees, a figure appeared. Tall, cloaked in gray, with eyes that gleamed like moonlight through mist. The figure carried no weapon, no torch, no crown—and yet Callus’s heart knew immediately who had come.

It was Death.

“Old man,” Death said, his voice calm, deep, neither cruel nor kind. “I heard you call my name. Here I am.”

Callus’s knees weakened, and not from age this time. He stumbled back, staring at the figure. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. Finally, with trembling lips, he stammered, “I… I only spoke in frustration. I did not truly mean—”

“But you did call,” Death said simply. He looked down at the bundle of sticks lying on the ground. “You said you were weary of this life. That you would prefer rest in the earth.”

The old man swallowed hard. His heart thumped like a drum inside his chest. For years, he had cursed his aches, his loneliness, his burdens. For years, he had thought of death as release. But now, standing face to face with it, he felt a different truth stirring.

“Come, old man,” Death said, extending a hand of shadow. “Shall I take you now, as you wished?”

Callus looked down at the sticks, then back at Death. His lips trembled. He bent slowly, lifted the bundle again with shaking arms, and straightened as best he could. His voice came out hoarse but firm:

“No. Not yet. I ask only one favor of you, Death.”

Death tilted his head. “And what is that?”

“Help me lift this bundle… and place it upon my shoulders.”

For a long moment, silence hung between them. Then, for the first time, Death’s lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. He bent, lifted the sticks as if they weighed nothing, and placed them back upon Callus’s back.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Death said softly. “Sometimes, the burden you know is lighter than the unknown you seek.”

With that, the figure dissolved into mist, and the crickets resumed their song, and the forest breathed again.

Callus stood there, shaking beneath his bundle, but alive. His heart was still pounding with the terror of what almost was. And though his steps were no easier as he walked back toward his hut, they carried a new weight now—not just of sticks, but of wisdom.

He had wished for death, but when death came, he found that life, however hard, was still worth holding.

Moral: Be careful what you wish for.