“When the Gods Came Hungry”

No one remembered their names in the village anymore. Only the crooked old house on the hill, and the couple inside it—too old to fear death, too kind to be feared. The house, with its weathered shutters and crooked roof, had stood for decades, untouched by time or the rush of the village below.

Their names were Baucis and Philemon. Though their clothes were patched and their fingers stiff with age, they lived with a peace no wealth could buy. They were simple folk, without riches or pride, yet their hearts were full of kindness. The village had long forgotten them, but they were content in their solitude. They needed nothing beyond each other’s company, their little garden, and the fire that crackled warmly in their hearth.

But peace, like wine, often sours in the mouths of the proud. One evening, when the air was still and the village quiet, the gods descended—not with thunder or golden light, but cloaked in dust and silence. Two men, strangers to the village, walked along the dirt roads, their steps soft against the earth. They were Zeus and Hermes, disguised as weary travelers. They knocked on doors, asking for food, for water, for shelter from the coming night.

They were met with laughter, sneers, and cold shoulders. A man spat at their feet. A woman slammed the door so hard it cracked her mirror. People locked their windows and pulled the curtains tight, too busy with their own lives to offer any kindness.

The gods knocked on a dozen doors, and each one closed colder than the last. They were weary now, their patience thinning like a thread about to snap. But when they reached the edge of the village, when they reached the crooked house on the hill, something was different.

Baucis opened the door without hesitation, her wrinkled face breaking into a smile, even though her hands trembled. "We don’t have much," she said, voice frail but warm, "but it's warm here. And you look like you need warmth."

Philemon, though slow and stiff with age, stepped forward and began adding wood to the fire. He didn’t ask who they were. He didn’t care. They were hungry. That was enough. The couple offered boiled herbs and barley bread, nothing fancy, but nourishing. The wine was sour and thin, but it was enough to wash away the taste of hunger. And it never ran out. No matter how much they poured, the jug remained full.

Baucis was the first to notice. Her sharp eyes narrowed as she looked from the jug to the guests. She glanced at Philemon, her brow furrowing. Then, her heart skipped. She dropped to her knees, eyes wide with realization.

“You’re not men,” she whispered. Her voice was trembling now, full of awe and fear.

Zeus stood, his form shifting like fog under sunlight. The disguise fell away, revealing his true form. The room filled with blinding light, and Hermes stood beside him, a smile playing on his lips. But it was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a god whose patience had worn thin.

“We asked for bread,” Zeus said, his voice booming like thunder, though the storm outside remained still. "And were given stones."

His words cracked the clay floor beneath them. Outside, the wind began to howl, the earth trembled beneath their feet. The village, oblivious to the gods’ arrival, began to shake as if the very ground was alive. The sky darkened, and the wind screamed.

Baucis and Philemon clung to each other as the gods stepped outside. The air was still, too still, and then the silence was broken by the roar of the sky. The village below, once full of life and laughter, screamed once—and then it was gone. A great flood, swift and merciless, swallowed the village whole, leaving only the water and the echoes of what had been.

The crooked house still stood.

Hermes, his gaze softening, turned to the couple. “You showed mercy,” he said, his voice laced with respect. “When no one else did. What do you desire?”

Philemon looked at Baucis. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her hand still in his. “We’ve had everything we’ve ever needed,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “But we cannot bear to leave each other behind. Not even in death.”

Zeus nodded solemnly. The gods looked at each other for a moment, their expressions unreadable. Then, with a wave of Zeus’ hand, the floodwaters receded, and the land grew quiet.

Years passed. The gods never returned, but the world whispered of them. The story of Baucis and Philemon became a legend.

One morning, as the sun rose blood-red over the hills, two trees stood where the crooked house once had been. One oak, sturdy and proud. One linden, graceful and tender. Their roots intertwined, their trunks bent toward each other like old lovers leaning in for one last kiss.

The trees still stand today, their branches swaying in the wind. And when the wind howls through them, it doesn’t sound like leaves.

It sounds like laughter.

And a promise kept.