In the heart of the Northern Woods, where ancient trees grow so tall they scratch the bellies of the clouds above, was an unfortunate boy named Erik. Unlike most who lived on this land, Erik had no home to call his own. He had foggy memories of his childhood and parents, but it has been a long time since they passed, and now Erik belonged to the land. Sometimes, when the night was particularly cold, he would pull these fragmented memories around him like a blanket – his father’s deep laugh and his mother’s wrinkled smile poking their faces into his crib. But other times, he resented these same memories, how they haunted him with what he knew he could never have again. The villagers, feeling sorry for him, would sometimes offer him a corner by their hearth, but this would never be for more than a night or two. Times were difficult, they would mutter with downcast eyes. Their kitchens smelled of bread and guilt.

Winter crept across the land that year with unusual ferocity. Wind howled through mountain crevasses, and the water in the harbor froze entirely; the ships were sitting ducks, longing for the sun to shine again. Erik’s thin jacket, now more patchwork than its original cloth, hung loosely on his shoulders, doing little to ward off the bitter, bone-biting cold.

One day this winter out marching through the thick snow in the forest, right when his legs could carry him no farther, Erik stumbled upon a clearing. There, nestled between old pines, stood an idle cabin. Its windows glowed with a warm, golden light, though there was no smoke rising from its chimney. Erik climbed up the steps to repeat the routine that he was all too familiar with: knock on the door and ask for help. Though when he stood in front of the entry, he found that the heavy spruce door was unlocked. He pressed on the door with just a touch of his finger, and creaking the door swung open. Inside, Erik found a bed made with thick, wool blankets nestled in one corner and a pot-bellied stove in another. Along one wall were shelves of dry firewood. Everything wore a layer of dust. The cabin seemed to be in a deep sleep, waiting for a passerby to move in. And so, Erik thought to himself, Surely, the owner wouldn’t mind if I stayed here…just until this treacherous storm passes.

But days melted into weeks. Erik, considerate of the fact that this cabin was not his, kept the place clean and tidy, using the supplies sparingly. He even managed to trap a few rabbits, which he managed to cure and leave out in the cold – so that if the owner were to return, he’d come back to more food than he left. He started to wonder if he could, perhaps, stay longer than just the winter; that perhaps the cabin had been spawned in this clearing for him by the forest itself, as a gift to reward him for his life of suffering. The thought bothered him as well as comforted him. Erik had never been one to expect rewards or justice – the world was simply cruel and unfair, he thought. 

One morning, just as winter began to loosen her grip, a gentle sheep visited the cabin. Her wool was the color of snow you only see in the most silent of winters. 

“Little one,” she said in her soft voice, “the storm has passed. It’s time for you to leave this borrowed skin. The longer you wear what isn’t yours, the more painful it will be when it’s finally torn away.”

Erik struggled to let the words out. “But where would I go? This is the only home I’ve known for so long.”

On the cabin’s doorstep, the sheep set down a small bowl of her milk. “The world continues beyond these walls,” she said. “Try the ambrosia of my fresh milk, and feast from the world you are leaving behind.”

“Thank you,” Erik replied, “but I already have the world right here.” Erik closed the door, returning to the warmth of his borrowed home. The sheep lingered a little while longer until the short day’s sun sank beyond the horizon. On the doorstep the sheep’s milk sat, untouched, until it froze from the outside cold.

.…

As the days grew longer and the snow on the land finally began to thaw, there came another visitor. A butterfly, stretching its fresh wings still damp from recently escaping its cocoon, landed on the cabin’s windowsill. Its wide wings fluttered with all the colors of spring. Looking up to Erik, it said, “I remember you, my friend, from back when we both slept in our dark spaces. But I broke free. Why do you still hide? My siblings are still trapped in their cocoons, frozen by the lingering cold. I need your help to free them before they suffocate. Please, Erik – you know what it’s like to be alone and struggling. The world burns with brilliant color outside. It is different from what you last remember. The time has now come for you to leave this old shell and stretch your wings for others.”

“I will say to you as I told the sheep,” the boy responded, his voice hardening with each word, “I have nowhere to go. Change is for those who have places to be. Here, my world does not change, and therefore I have nowhere else to be. Your siblings are not my concern, and back when I was cold, who was there to protect me? And now that I finally have somewhere to keep me warm, you ask me to risk it?” He slammed the window shut, and yelled, “Now, GO! ” 

The butterfly waited patiently on a nearby branch until sunset before finally flying away into the gathering dusk.

Spring then bloomed into summer, and still Erik remained. Now, he had fully begun to believe that perhaps he had truly earned the right to stay, that through all his careful tending and defence of the cabin, he had become its owner. But hidden deep within his heart, he knew this was not his home, and that the cabin’s true owner would inevitably come in the summer once the flowers were in full-bloom. 

…

Then, one night, came another.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

The knocks shook the cabin; it was firm and final, like the closing of a book. Erik rose from his slumber, and, knowing that the owner had finally come home, went to open the door. There, standing in front of him, he found a tall figure wrapped in a cloak of the darkest midnight. Erik could feel upon him the weight of its gaze, impersonal yet absolute.

“Now, who are you and what do you want from me this time?” demanded Erik.

With a voice that Erik hadn’t heard since the death of his parents, the dark figure introduced himself: “I am Death.”

Erik was frozen.

“You have stayed too long in this borrowed story,” Death said, sounding like a rumble from deep within the very Earth. “The sheep offered you sustenance, but you closed your door. The butterfly showed you new wings, but you stayed still. You refused to extend the mercy you once needed. Now, I have come not to offer but to collect what was always mine.”

For the first time in months, Erik wanted to run, but his feet had grown roots into the floorboards. Death stepped into the cabin, returning home.

“But this is the only home I have. It is the only home that I have ever had,” Erik’s words fell like dead leaves.

“No,” answered Death. “This was never your home. You knew it was merely a temporary shelter, and now the loan has come due.”

Then Death reached out with his long, bare-branch fingers, and Erik felt an unfathomable weariness come over him. As his eyes closed for a final time, he saw the cabin as it truly was–not a permanent home from the forest, but a temporary refuge, a visit destination he had refused to leave until it became his tomb.

The following morning, the cabin stood empty once again. The bed was made, the floors swept clean, and all was as it had initially been before Erik’s arrival. Only now, in the small garden outside where Erik would sometimes sit to watch the sunset, a patch of butterflyweed had sprouted, its orange blossoms shining bright against the dark Earth.