The cottage stood at the edge of the fields.
Its walls leaned slightly to one side.
Its roof creaked when the wind passed through.
But it was home.
Inside lived a farmer named Jorin.
His wife, Elma.
And their young daughter, Pira.
They did not have much.
But they had enough.
Each morning began the same way.
Jorin rose before the sun.
Elma warmed the hearth.
Pira fed the animals.
Behind the cottage was a small coop.
Inside it lived a single goose.
Plain feathers.
Quiet eyes.
Nothing special at first glance.
Until one morning.
Pira opened the coop door.
She gasped.
In the straw lay an egg.
Not white.
Not brown.
But glowing softly.
Gold.
She called for her parents.
Jorin knelt beside it.
His hands trembled.
Elma covered her mouth.
They exchanged a long look.
“This changes everything,” Jorin whispered.
They sold the egg in the village.
The coins felt heavy in their hands.
They paid debts.
They repaired the roof.
They bought warm bread.
The next morning, another golden egg appeared.
And the next.
And the next.
Each day brought relief.
Security.
Hope.
But also questions.
“How long will this last?” Jorin wondered.
“What if it stops?” Elma asked.
Pira watched the goose carefully.
She spoke to it softly.
She fed it well.
She thanked it each night.
The goose only blinked.
And laid its egg each morning.
Weeks passed.
Their cottage improved.
Their meals grew fuller.
The villagers noticed.
Whispers followed Jorin through the market.
“You are lucky,” some said.
Others frowned.
Luck attracts hunger.
Greed began quietly.
Like a thought you don’t notice at first.
Jorin started counting future eggs.
If one egg a day brought comfort…
What would many bring?
The thought grew louder.
“He must be full of gold,” Jorin muttered one night.
Elma stiffened.
“Or he must be alive,” she replied.
Pira hugged the goose the next morning.
She felt its warmth.
Its steady breathing.
She did not like her father’s new tone.
That day, no egg appeared until late afternoon.
Jorin paced.
His chest felt tight.
When the egg finally came, relief turned quickly into frustration.
“See?” he said.
“It’s slowing.”
Elma said nothing.
Pira frowned.
That night, Jorin barely slept.
Numbers danced in his mind.
Gold stacked higher.
Fears whispered louder.
At dawn, he made his choice.
He took the goose into the shed.
Elma stood in the doorway.
“Stop,” she said.
Pira cried out.
Jorin hesitated.
Then greed pushed harder than doubt.
The shed went quiet.
Too quiet.
Moments later, Jorin emerged.
His face pale.
His hands empty.
No gold.
No goose.
Only silence.
The eggs stopped forever.
The coop stayed empty.
The cottage felt colder.
The villagers stopped whispering.
Elma turned away.
Pira did not speak for days.
Jorin sat alone each morning.
The fields looked the same.
But everything felt smaller.
One evening, Pira placed a feather on the table.
“It sang,” she said softly.
Jorin looked up.
“What?”
“The goose,” she said.
“When we waited, it sang.”
Understanding arrived too late.
Jorin bowed his head.
They returned to farming.
Slowly.
Honestly.
It took time to heal.
But the lesson stayed.
That blessings breathe.
That patience keeps them alive.
And that greed does not create more.
It only destroys what was already enough.