A stranger arrived in the village on a morning thick with fog.
He wore a black cloak, and his voice was rough—like stone grinding against stone.
He didn’t ask for food.
He didn’t ask for shelter.

He asked only one thing:

“Is there anyone here who once called himself the God of Pride?”

The villagers looked at each other, puzzled.
None of them understood.
They had never heard that name.
They only knew an old man—quiet, hardworking, who fixed broken roofs.

And he—
He stood behind the trees, listening.

That night, he dug a hole behind his home.

Not deep.
Just enough to bury an old torn cloak
and a stone shard etched with an ancient sigil.

On the stone, a single word was carved:
PRIDE.

He placed a hand on the stone for a long while.

Then whispered,
for the last time:

“You’ve lived long enough.
Now let me… keep living.”

At dawn,
he filled the hole.
Planted a small apple tree atop it.
No divine light.
No miracle.

Just a tree.
And hope.

Weeks passed,
and the first fruit ripened.
Bitter.
Rough.
But real.

Children plucked it, took a bite,
grimaced—then burst out laughing.

He laughed with them.

No one knew what lay beneath that tree.
And no one needed to.

Because on that day,
Pride died.
And a man was born.