48

The soul found itself in a vast, open field. Golden stalks of wheat swayed gently under a sun-drenched sky, and the smell of earth filled the air. A worn sickle rested on the ground, its blade dulled from years of use. Nearby, a straw hat, faded and frayed, lay forgotten.

The Angel of Death appeared beside the soul, watching the fields ripple like an ocean of gold.

"You didn't just grow crops," the Angel said softly. "You grew life."

The soul sighed, shoulders slumping. "It never felt that way. It was just… endless days under the sun. Backbreaking work. And when the droughts came, or the pests swarmed… it felt like the earth itself wanted me to fail."

The Angel nodded knowingly. "The earth is harsh. But you didn't stop. Season after season, you planted, hoping the next harvest would be better. And because you did, families ate. Children were fed. Strangers you never met survived — because of your hands."

The soul's voice wavered. "I just wanted to provide. For my family. For anyone who needed it. But in the end… I was just one worker in a field. Who really notices someone like me?"

The Angel turned to the horizon, where the fields stretched endlessly. "The land noticed. It remembers every seed you placed. Every furrow you dug. Every time you stood back up after falling. It wasn't just food you gave — it was hope. You reminded the world that, even when the land fights back, someone is still willing to believe in it."

The soul looked around, seeing the field anew — not as a battlefield of labor and hardship, but as a tapestry of resilience. Each sprout a victory. Each stalk a testament to stubborn, unwavering hope.

"I never thought about it like that," the soul whispered.

The Angel smiled gently. "That's the truth of those who work the land. Their hands may be forgotten, but their work never is."

The soul took a deep breath, the smell of wheat and soil filling its lungs one last time. Then it nodded. "I'm ready now."

The Angel extended a hand. "Let's go."

As the field faded into light, somewhere, a child sat at a kitchen table, tearing into a piece of warm bread, smiling through crumbs. Their mother watched, relieved that the pantry wasn't empty this time.

Neither knew the face of the farmer who made their meal possible.

But the land remembered — and so did the Angel.