“I’ve always wanted to be straightforward like iron,” Tanaka said, staring into his coffee cup. The café was empty except for us, and rain tapped gently against the windows.

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what he meant. Tanaka had always been cryptic since his return from that remote village in the mountains. His face looked harder somehow, like weathered metal.

“The old woman there, she could see things,” he continued. “She told me iron speaks the truth. No pretense, no malleability. Just pure, direct existence.”

“What happened in that village?” I asked, though part of me didn’t want to know.

Tanaka’s eyes met mine. They had an unusual metallic sheen. “I went to research their folk customs. But on my third night, the old woman visited me. She said I lacked substance, that I bent too easily to others’ wills. She offered to help.”

He rolled up his sleeve. In the dim café light, his skin had a strange gleam. “She performed a ritual. Said she would give me the spirit of iron.”

I leaned closer. His arm looked normal, but when I touched it, it was cold and hard. Like metal.

“At first, I was thrilled. I felt stronger, more decisive. No more doubt, no more compromising my principles. Pure iron will.”

“But?”

“But iron doesn’t bend. It breaks.” Tanaka’s laugh was hollow. “I can’t adjust to anything anymore. Can’t adapt. Can’t feel warmth. My wife left last week. Said I’d become cold, inflexible.”

The rain outside grew heavier. Lightning flashed, illuminating Tanaka’s face in stark relief. For a moment, I could have sworn his skin had the dull sheen of cast iron.

“Can’t you go back? Ask the old woman to reverse it?”

“The village is gone. I tried returning last month. Nothing there but empty houses and rusted tools. Like everyone just… dissolved.”

He stood up abruptly. “I should go. Thanks for listening.”

As he walked to the door, his movements were stiff, mechanical. The bell chimed as he left, but it sounded different - a metallic clang instead of its usual gentle tinkle.

A week later, I read about Tanaka in the newspaper. They found him in his apartment, completely transformed into an iron statue. The article called it a “bizarre medical phenomenon.” But what caught my attention was the expression frozen on his face - a smile of perfect satisfaction.

The next day, I received a package. Inside was a small iron figurine and a note in Tanaka’s handwriting: “Finally, I am completely honest. No flesh to corrupt the truth. Just pure, direct iron.”

I placed the figurine on my desk. Sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear it whispering about the virtue of being unbending, uncompromising, pure. I’ve started to notice my fingers getting stiffer, colder.

Perhaps I should move it to the basement. But then again, wouldn’t it be nice to be a little more… straightforward?