⏱ ~4 min reading
Tarasik walked slowly from school, as if he were carrying bricks in his backpack, not books. The maple leaves rustled under his feet with a golden whisper, the yards smelled of apples and damp bark - and it was still hard for him. Somewhere inside, right under his ribs, lay something hard and cold. A stone. It had appeared a week ago, when his classmate Yurko laughed at his drawing during recess - he called the cloud a "crooked potato.".
Tarasik carried this stone everywhere. To school. For a walk. To grandma's for pancakes. The stone pressed. The boy couldn't laugh at his dad's jokes. He couldn't be happy when his mom brought red pears from the market. Even his favorite cartoon about a hedgehog seemed sad.
"Tarasik," his mother sat down next to him on the rug where he was assembling the construction set. "You've been silent for three days. What's wrong with you, son?"
Mom's voice was warm, like fresh bread. Tarasik sighed and put down the red piece.
"I have a stone in my heart, Mom. It's heavy. Because of Yurko.".
“Because of Yurko?” Mom wasn’t surprised or laughed. She just nodded, as if she already understood everything.
"He laughed at me. And I... I don't want him in the world. I hate him.".
Tarasik said it quietly, because the word itself was prickly, like a rosehip. Mom was silent. She tucked a warm blanket under him. And then she took his hand — carefully, as if she had a butterfly in her palm.
"Show me this stone. Give me your hand.".
"How can I show it? It's inside.".
"And you try. Open your palm. Imagine he's here.".
Tarasik squinted. He opened his small hand, placed it on his knee, and looked down. On his hand were only three threads from a sweater and a little dust from a construction set. Nothing else. Not a single stone. Neither sharp nor round, neither black nor gray.
“Mom… he’s not here,” the boy was surprised.
"Where is he?"
"In my head," Tarasyk froze, as if hearing it for the first time. "I keep it there myself.".
Mom smiled gently—only she smiled like that when her son reached something important on his own.
"Yes, my dear. And you know what's most interesting? If you hold it yourself, you can let it go. Imagine that it's right here, in the palm of your hand. See?"
"I see," Tarasyk nodded and even bent his fingers a little, as if the stone really weighed.
"Now come to the window.".
Tarasik came over. Mom opened the window. A fresh autumn breeze blew outside—it smelled of mushrooms, wet oak, and somewhere very far away—smoke from someone's fireplace.
"Now blow," Mom whispered. "Quietly. Like a dandelion.".
Tarasik took a breath and blew. Then again. And again. It seemed to him that something really moved in his palm - as if a fine dust had lifted and flown into the yard. To where a yellow leaf was spinning between the branches. To where nothing hurt anymore.
The boy inhaled slowly. Deeply. All the way to the bottom of his chest. And suddenly he noticed: there was space under his ribs. The stone disappeared - as if it had never been there. As if it really was made of dust.
"Mom," whispered Tarasyk. "He fell apart.".
"Hatred always crumbles," his mother said, putting her arm around his shoulders. "Because it's made of dust. It's easy to hold on to and easy to let go of. You just have to want it.".
In the morning at school, Tarasik stood for a long time near the classroom. Yurko was sitting at his desk, leafing through a science textbook and drawing some kind of dragon in the fields. Tarasik came over. His heart was pounding, but not from anger anymore — from excitement.
— Hello, Yurka.
Yurko raised his head. His eyes became round with surprise — as if he had long since stopped expecting to hear a simple "hello" from Tarasyk.
— Oh… hello.
"You're drawing a beautiful dragon. Can I add a cloud next to it? Even a curve.".
Yurko smiled. At first timidly, and then broadly.
"You can. Sit down.".
Tarasik sat down. They drew a dragon together—with a cloud, a yellow sun, and even a small potato flying alongside like a comet. They laughed together during the break. And when the bell rang, Yurko said quietly:
"Listen, I wasn't talking about potatoes then - I didn't mean to. It just seemed funny. Sorry.".
"I've already forgotten," Tarasyk answered honestly. And it was true.
At home he told his mother. Mother poured him rosehip compote, put a plate of nut cookies on the table and said:
"You see, son. The stone that is not there is the heaviest. And when you blow it away, there is only room in the palm of your hand for a kind word.".
Tarasyk nodded. He had known this secret forever.
✨ Hate is just an imaginary stone that can be blown out of the palm of your hand ✨