Once upon a time, at the edge of a thick forest, there lived a goldsmith. His skill was extraordinary: he could beat gold into leaves as thin as a cicada's wing and weave gold wire into chains finer than a spider's web. Nobles and royalty came from far and wide to have him make their jewelry, and he had amassed so many gold coins that he filled three clay jars and buried them beneath the floor of his workshop.
By all rights, he should have been content. But every night the goldsmith would dig up the jars, count the coins, and sigh: "Not enough. Still not enough."
One evening, after locking up his workshop, the goldsmith crossed the forest to collect a debt in a neighbouring village. Halfway there, he heard a faint weeping.
Under an old oak tree sat an old woman, her hair as white as winter frost. She was weeping so bitterly that even the squirrels paused to stare.
"Good sir," she said, lifting her tear‑filled eyes, "my golden ring has fallen into this well. It was given to me by my mother on my wedding day, and it is the only precious thing I own. Could you please fish it out for me?"
The goldsmith peered into the well. It was an old, abandoned well; the water was deep and reflected a small patch of sky.
"I can help you," said the goldsmith, his eyes shifting craftily, "but you must pay me for my trouble."
The old woman drew three copper coins from her bosom. "This is all I have."
The goldsmith curled his lip, thinking to himself: A golden ring in exchange for three copper coins—what a bargain! Aloud he said, "Very well, I suppose I can do a good deed."
He found a long pole, tied an iron hook to its end, and lowered it into the well. After fishing for a while, the hook caught something. He pulled it up carefully—it was indeed the golden ring, its surface washed clean by the well water, gleaming in the sunset light. Engraved on it was a tiny rose.
The old woman clasped her hands in joy. But the goldsmith clutched the ring and would not let go.
"What a beautiful ring," he said, turning it over and over. "Even finer than my own work. Tell me, old mother, you would only keep it hidden away. Why not sell it to me? I'll give you—say, five copper coins."
The old woman shook her head. "This was my mother's bequest. I would not sell it for any amount."
The goldsmith's face darkened. "Then you'll have to ask someone else. I'll keep it for myself." He pocketed the ring, shouldered his pole, and prepared to leave.
At that very moment, the old woman straightened her back. She was no longer crying, and her stoop was gone. Her white hair floated in the evening breeze and turned into silver light. Her ragged clothes fell away, revealing a robe woven from moonlight.
The goldsmith was so frightened that his pole clattered to the ground. The old woman was not an old woman at all—she was a spirit of the forest.
"For thirty years I have sat by this well," said the spirit, "testing the hearts of passers‑by with this ring. Those who helped me sincerely, I blessed with good fortune. Those who were greedy—I let them learn that what is taken by greed will, in time, turn into something else."
She raised a finger and pointed it at the goldsmith's pocket.
The goldsmith felt his pocket grow lighter. He reached inside—the golden ring was gone. Instead, he pulled out a handful of dry leaves that crumbled to dust between his fingers.
With a cry of dismay, he ran all the way home. The first thing he did when he reached his workshop was to dig up the three clay jars.
The jars were still there. He breathed a sigh of relief and opened the first—instead of gold coins, it was full of dead leaves. The second—also dead leaves. The third—dead leaves, with a beetle crawling slowly on top.
The goldsmith sank to the floor. Unwilling to believe, he searched his counter, his drawers, his shelves—every piece of gold he had ever made, every ring, necklace, bracelet, and earring, had all turned into dead leaves. Only one old sickle remained intact—the one the neighbouring farmer had brought for repair, its handle still carved with the farmer's father's name.
The goldsmith sat in his empty workshop all night, clutching that sickle.
At dawn he went to knock on the farmer's door and returned the sickle. "It's mended," he said. "No charge."
The farmer looked at him in surprise. "You look terrible. What's wrong?"
The goldsmith shook his head and said nothing. From that day on, he closed his workshop, shouldered his pack, and walked into the forest. He searched every corner of the woods, asked every old oak, peered into every abandoned well. He wanted to find the forest spirit—not to ask for his gold back, but to say one thing.
But he never met her again.
One year passed. Two years passed. The goldsmith built a small wooden cabin at the edge of the forest and set up his tools once more. Only this time, he made iron bands for plowshares, brass buckles for saddles, and little silver bells for children. He no longer buried coins in the ground. Instead, every evening he counted out half of what he had earned that day and placed the copper coins under a stone by his door.
The next morning, the coins under the stone would always be gone. He knew they were taken by the wanderers and poor folk who passed through the forest. He never tried to see who took them, and he never asked for them back.
Many years later, on a frosty morning, the goldsmith had grown very old. He pushed open his wooden door and saw that beside the stone had sprouted a plant he had never seen before. Every leaf was golden, shimmering in the dawn light, just like the golden leaves he had lost long ago.
But these leaves did not crumble, nor did they wither. When he touched them, they felt warm.
The goldsmith sat down beside the plant. When the wind blew, the golden leaves rustled against one another, making a very soft sound, like many tiny bells swaying.
Suddenly he remembered what the old woman—the forest spirit—had said by the well all those years ago.
What is taken by greed will, in time, turn into something else.
But what is given from the heart will also turn into something else.
He smiled. It was the first time in the second half of his life that he had smiled so peacefully.
After that, travellers passing through the forest would always find a cup of hot tea waiting at the cabin door. In the tea floated a golden leaf, giving it a faint, sweet taste. People said that the goldsmith had planted those leaves, one by one, with every evening of his later years.
And on the rim of the old well deep in the forest, a cluster of wild roses grew. Every year when they bloomed, the heart of each flower held a tiny golden stamen—as if someone had quietly returned the golden ring, giving a piece of it to every flower.
—The End—