"The Burden of the Un-Chosen"

[A short story of fear, choices, and discovering the courage that was within all along]

A young man paces nervously down a narrow forest trail, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of his missing friend. As he steps into a sunlit clearing, his gaze lands on an old man seated before a fork in the path. The figure is diminutive, nonthreatening, and wears an amused smirk as though privy to a joke only he understands.

The two exchange a long, silent stare before the young man finally speaks, his voice tinged with urgency. “I’m looking for a friend. Have you seen him?” The old man’s smirk deepens into a grin, and he replies casually, “Yes, indeed I have.” Eager for answers, the young man presses, “Which way did he go?” Yet the old man remains silent, his grin lingering as if the question itself misses the mark. Frustration flashes across the young man’s face as he hurriedly points to the left. “Fine. Then what’s down that path?”

The old man chuckles softly, finally obliging the query. His voice takes on an almost lyrical cadence as he answers:

“Down this path, you’ll surely see

The likes of men who think they’re free.

They tread the road, as those before,

Unwilling to ask, ‘What if there’s more?’

The way is wide, its burden light,

No fear of death nor endless fright.

Where moments pass without a sound,

And stillness keeps you safe and bound.”

Where all will live through tales of old,

No future threats of growing cold.

The old man falls silent again, leaving the young man to ponder the riddle of the road ahead. The young man, undeterred, points to the other path. His voice carries a mix of curiosity and determination. “And what about that path?” he asks, motioning to the road on the right.

The old man’s grin fades into a contemplative expression, and he speaks with a tone that seems to carry the weight of countless stories:

“Down this road, the air grows thin,

Each step a trial where few begin

The trail is narrow, carved by pain,

Through shadowy woods and ceaseless rain

The winds will howl, the ground will bite

Each forward stride defies the night

No voices cheer, no hands extend

No easy solace waits to mend.

Yet Through the chaos, so far from sight,

There lies a truth, bathed in light

A spark so faint, yet ever clear,

A glow revealed when none are near."

The young man hesitated, torn between the two paths. The old man watched him, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he spoke, his voice deliberate and weighty. “There is another way,” he said, his words lingering in the air. “But that road... leads to retreat. A path of surrender.”

The young man stood frozen, staring at the old man, caught between the two paths, unsure of what to do. The weight of the choice bore down on him, the questions swirling in his mind, each answer as elusive as the last.

The old man, with a patient grin, watched him silently for a moment before speaking again, his voice low but steady. “The choice is yours, but time moves on, and you cannot stay here forever.”

The young man glanced back toward the familiar path, then to the one unknown, the one that beckoned with a subtle promise of something more. His mind raced, his heart torn between comfort and the unknown, the easy road or the one less traveled.

The old man stood, his small figure now looming larger in the young man’s eyes. “Make your choice. There is no turning back once you’ve stepped forward. But remember—this moment, like all others, will slip away if you don’t act.”

With a final look, the young man took a step forward, then hesitated, his foot suspended in mid-air, unsure of which direction to go. The silence stretched, the only sound the whisper of the wind.

And then the old man’s voice broke the stillness once more. “It’s time. Choose.”

Many times in my life, I have wandered down a solitary path, firmly convinced that I was seeking something beyond myself. At every crossroads, wisdom presented itself before me, offering a choice: to veer left, toward the safer, more familiar road of conformity and complacency, or to turn right, toward the more arduous journey that promised to lead to my true self. Yet, what I failed to realize—time and again—was that there was always a third option, one I inevitably chose: the road that led me back to where I started. Gripped by a paralyzing fear of the unknown, afraid of both success and failure, I kept returning to the only road I knew, the one that seemed the least threatening. In the end, the very thing I sought was not out there, but within me—the courage to face the fear that had long held me captive. It had always been inside me, I had simply failed to acknowledge it.

[Spencer Brooks Otto]