By Erin Callahan

Long ago, in a lakeside village ringed with silver birch trees, there lived a woman named Maren.

Maren was known across the valley for one simple truth if something was broken, she could fix it.

When the mill wheel cracked, Maren patched it.
When the clock tower froze in mid-chime, she coaxed it back to life.
When two neighbors quarreled, she found words that soothed them both.

Her hands were clever, her mind quicker still, and her heart forever open. People began to say that Maren carried a bit of magic. The quiet kind that made things work again.

And so, when anything went wrong, the villagers came running to her door.
At first, Maren was glad to help. Each problem solved was a spark of satisfaction, each grateful smile a small joy. But soon, the line outside her cottage never ended. From sunrise until the stars rose, she was mending, mending, mending.

She no longer walked by the lake she loved. Her own garden grew wild with weeds, her clothes went unpatched, her fire burned low.

Still, she told herself she could manage. After all, she was capable.

One winter night, a terrible storm swept down from the mountains. The wind howled like wolves, the river broke its banks, and the village shuddered beneath sheets of ice and rain.

Panicked voices called out into the darkness:
“Maren! The bridge has fallen!”
“Maren! My roof is caving in!”
“Maren! We need you!”

So Maren went from house to house, soaked and shivering, hauling timber, tying rope, calming frightened children.

By dawn, the storm had passed. The village stood battered but safe. And Maren, weary but relieved, trudged home through the gray light.

When she reached her cottage, her heart sank. The roof had collapsed, the fire was drowned, her books and tools lay ruined. She fell to her knees in the mud and wept not for what was lost, but for how long she had ignored it.

Later that day, the villagers came with baskets of food and words of thanks. They found Maren sitting among the wreckage, staring at the empty space where her hearth had been.

“I spent my life fixing everything,” she said quietly, “except the one thing that mattered most…teaching you how to fix things too.”

For a long while, no one spoke. Then the carpenter stepped forward.
“Then let us learn.”

And so they did. Together, they rebuilt her home. The blacksmith showed the children how to mend a hinge. The weaver taught them to stitch a tear. The baker repaired the cracked oven himself, proudly crooked though it was.

Maren watched, resting for the first time in years, her heart both heavy and light.

When her cottage was whole again, she hung a small wooden sign by her door. It read:

“If you wish to learn, come in. If you wish to hand me your burdens, keep walking.”

From that day on, Maren still helped when she could but she no longer carried what was not hers. And the village was stronger for it.