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?"

There was a pause.

Then Death knelt without a word, picked up half the bundle, and together they walked up the hill.

"Why’d you call upon me?" Death asked.

"I just want to not exist," the man replied.

"Aren’t you already doing that? Distancing yourself from everyone, hoping maybe someone will come and drag you out of it?" Death asked, with a cold stillness in his voice.

"Why’d you take so many people from me?" the man asked.

"They called upon me too. And they ask about you often — especially your grandfather. Persistent man, he is. Oh — and he said to cut the beard. Doesn’t suit you." Death smirked.

The man gave a weak laugh.

"Why do I feel like I don’t matter? That if I vanished, it would be better for everyone?"

"You’re carrying more than logs, old friend. You carry expectations, grief, memories — uphill, every day. You are made of the same stardust as Mozart, as Plato, as Raunak.

Let me carry the expectations once — along with the wood."

The man walked in silence for a while, then asked:

"Why do you take people’s lives? What gives you the right?"

Death replied,

"Do you value a story because it begins — or because it ends? Would you cherish life if there was no end to it? Is your pain so deep, dear child, that you cannot see the truth?"

The man broke.

"But why does it always have to be me that bears the weight?" he said, his voice cracking.

Death paused, then said softly,

"Heavy is the head that chooses to wear the crown."

They reached the peak of the hill.

The man looked out over the quiet, sleeping town — smoke rising from chimneys, the glint of frost catching the moonlight.

Death dropped the bundle of wood behind him.

The man breathed deeply. He looked at Death, and said:

"I would like to live. To feel water on my skin, to smell the air, to be hurt again, to be healed. To carry pain — and offer comfort.

Today, I ask you not to take me. Not yet. I’ll come to you when I believe you’ve earned the right to take me."

He turned.

There was no one there.

Only the logs remained, neatly stacked.

He stared into the distance, then smiled faintly.

"Heavy is the head that chooses to wear the crown," he whispered to himself.