⏱ ~5 min reading
Behind the village, the forest began. At first, it was light, with white birches and strawberry glades. Then it became darker, with spruces and moss. And then, even deeper, the thicket began. Almost no one went there. The trees stood there closely, their branches intertwined, as if holding hands. The sun broke through the crowns with thin golden threads. It smelled of pine needles, fallen leaves, mushrooms and something else - warm and a little sweet, like an old fairy tale.
In this thicket, the elders said, there is a well. An old one, lined with gray stone, covered with green velvet moss. And not an ordinary one. Whoever looks into it will see their future.
The children whispered it to each other. Some heard it from their grandmother. Some from their grandfather. Some from a neighbor's boy who had supposedly seen the well once. Everyone dreamed of finding it. But when they entered the forest, they somehow didn't have the courage to go beyond the clearing with strawberries.
And little Sofia found the well by accident.
She went with her grandmother to pick mushrooms. Sofiyka had a yellow basket and a red handkerchief. Grandmother walked ahead, bending down, looking for butter. Sofiyka stomped behind and watched as the little red squirrel jumped from branch to branch. The squirrel jumped further. Sofiyka followed her. A little more. Another step. And another.
When the girl looked back, the grandmother was no longer visible. Only the fir trees, ferns, and soft moss under her shoes.
“Grandma?” Sofiyka called out quietly.
The forest answered with a rustle. Somewhere a titmouse chirped. Somewhere a twig crunched. And suddenly Sofiyka saw: among the ferns, in a spot of sunlight, there it stood. A well.
Gray stones. Green moss. A wooden bucket on a chain. Everything is so quiet, as if it was waiting for her.
Sophie tiptoed over. Her heart was beating like a little drum. She placed the basket in the moss, carefully leaned against the edge, and peered in.
There was water in the well. Dark, calm, like a mirror. And in it Sofiyka saw… herself. Her red handkerchief. Her eyes. Her smile. And next to her was the face of her grandmother, who was leaning over her and stroking her cheek. And her laughter. And a hand holding a piece of honeysuckle. And a warm kitchen with a geranium on the window.
"This isn't the future," whispered Sofiyka, a little disappointed. "This is my present. My "now.".
And then the well spoke. Not loudly. As quietly as the wind whispers in a chimney.
"The future, child," he said, "is your "now" multiplied by love. If you smile today, you will smile tomorrow. If you love today, you will love tomorrow. If you are grateful for the honeysuckle, you will always have something to be grateful for.".
Sophie listened, holding her breath. A butterfly flew over the well. A little red squirrel sat on the edge, looked at it with curious eyes, and scurried away.
“What if I want my tomorrow to be good?” asked Sofiyka.
"Make today beautiful," the well replied. "Hug the one you love. Say a kind word. Wash the cup that grandma drank from. Water the geranium. Sing a song. That's what tomorrow is made of. Not by miracles, but by small, warm steps.".
Sofiyka nodded. Her chest felt light, like it does when her mother enters the room and quietly covers her with a blanket.
"Thank you," she said to the well.
"Run," the well replied gently. "Grandma is already worried.".
Sofiyka looked around - and indeed, somewhere very close, she heard:
"Sophie-oh! Where are you, sweetheart?"
— I'm here, grandma!
She picked up the basket and ran to the voice. The fern parted before her like a green curtain. The sun broke through again, a thread, and fell on the handkerchief. Grandma stood on the path, holding a large umbrella from the rain in her hand and smiling with relief.
"Where are you going, my little squirrel?"
"A real squirrel," laughed Sofiyka. "And also... grandma, I love you very much.".
Grandma didn't say anything. She just leaned over and kissed Sofiyka on the top of her head. Grandma smelled of bread, dill, and a little lavender from the cupboard.
They walked home slowly. Sofiyka held her grandmother's hand tightly. They gathered more buttercups along the way. In the clearing they sat on a log and listened to the woodpecker knocking. Sofiyka kept thinking about the well and its quiet words.
At home she did some small chores. She watered the geraniums on the window - the leaves shone like after rain. She washed her cup and grandmother's, carefully wiped them with a towel. She put a honey jar on a plate - for grandmother, from the very top of the box, the largest. She brought grandfather's warm slippers from the porch. Then she sat down next to grandmother, put her head on her lap and said:
"Grandma, tell me a story. Any story. I'm listening.".
Grandma smiled and stroked her head. Her hand was warm and a little rough, like a rye loaf. An apple tree rustled softly outside the window. Wood crackled in the stove. And Grandma began to tell stories - about the forest princess, about the nut boy, about the silver fish that fulfills not three wishes, but only one, the most important one. Sofiyka listened and smiled. Somewhere in her chest, the same light flickered softly as at the well in the thicket.
And she finally understood: she will have it tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. And many, many more days. Because today she loves. Today she is grateful. Today she is here — whole, warm, together with her grandmother.
And the well in the thicket of the forest stood further away. Quiet, shaggy, with a dark mirror of water. It did not show wonders. It simply showed people what they already had. All they had to do was approach. Bend down. And see.
✨ The future is created by how you live "now" - with love, a smile and gratitude ✨