Morning arrived quietly at the edge of the forest.
Mist hovered low over the river.
Birdsong drifted between the trees.
Arin walked the narrow path with steady steps.
His boots were worn.
His shirt was patched.
But his grip on the axe was firm.
The axe had belonged to his father.
The handle was smooth from years of use.
The blade carried small marks from honest work.
Arin reached the riverbank where tall trees leaned toward the water.
This was where he worked each day.
Not for riches.
Not for praise.
But for bread.
He swung the axe carefully.
One strike.
Then another.
Wood split cleanly.
The sound echoed softly across the river.
Arin paused to wipe his brow.
The ground was damp.
The air is cool.
As he lifted the axe again, his foot slipped.
The handle twisted.
The axe flew from his hands.
It struck the water with a sharp splash.
Then disappeared.
Arin froze.
The river swallowed the sound.
The current moved on.
His heart sank.
He knelt at the edge.
He searched the surface.
Nothing.
The axe was gone.
Arin sat heavily on a rock.
Without the axe, he could not work.
Without work, he could not eat.
Tears welled in his eyes.
“I only had one,” he whispered.
The river rippled strangely.
The water shimmered.
From the current rose a figure made of light and reflection.
Gentle.
Calm.
Timeless.
“Why do you weep?” the figure asked.
Arin gasped but did not flee.
“My axe fell into the river,” he said.
“It was all I owned.”
The figure nodded.
“Wait here,” it said.
The river glowed brighter.
Moments later, the figure emerged holding a golden axe.
Its blade gleamed.
Its handle shone.
“Is this yours?” the figure asked.
Arin stared.
His breath caught.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said softly.
“That is not mine.”
The figure smiled and vanished beneath the water.
Again, the river stirred.
This time, the figure returned with a silver axe.
Smooth.
Polished.
Bright.
“Is this yours?”
Arin looked carefully.
Again, he shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“My axe was simple.”
The river moved once more.
When the figure returned, it held a plain axe.
Worn.
Familiar.
Marked with age.
Arin’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes,” he said.
“That is mine.”
The figure smiled warmly.
“You spoke the truth,” it said.
“And truth is rare.”
The figure placed the plain axe in Arin’s hands.
Then, to his surprise, he also placed the golden and silver axes beside it.
“For honesty,” the figure said.
“Not for loss.”
Before Arin could speak, the river returned to normal.
The light faded.
The mist lifted.
Arin stood alone again.
But his hands trembled.
Not from fear.
From understanding.
He carried the axes home.
The village gathered when they saw him.
They stared at the shining tools.
“Are they yours?” someone asked.
Arin nodded.
“But not because I claimed them,” he said.
He told them everything.
The river.
The questions.
The truth.
The villagers listened quietly.
A lesson settled among them like dust after rain.
From that day on, Arin worked harder than ever.
He used the golden axe rarely.
The silver one carefully.
The plain one daily.
Because it reminded him who he was.
Honest.
Steady.
Enough.
The river flowed on.
Silent.
Watching.
Because integrity leaves marks deeper than gold.