Coup de grâce of yash
There was once a man who lived alone at the edge of a cold, whispering forest. Each day, from sunrise to sunset, he would cut trees, gather wood, and carry it uphill to his cabin. The path was steep, the wood heavy, and the years had not been kind to his bones. He had no family left. No friends visited. Only the wind, the trees, and the growing ache in his back kept him company. One winter evening, exhausted and bitter, he dropped his bundle of wood in the snow and cried out, "I'm tired! Too tired! Let Death come and take me. There's nothing left for me here." And to his surprise, Death came. A quiet figure cloaked in stillness, pale as frost, stepped from between the trees. No fanfare, no drama. Just silence. "Did you call for me?" Death asked. The man looked up, trembling — not from the cold this time, but from something deeper. He stared into the hollow calm of Death’s face and whispered, "...Actually, could you help me carry this wood instead?"...