Kirill had a large family. Two brothers, three sisters, mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, two aunts and three cousins. The house was always buzzing - now laughter, now singing, now stomping. Everyone loved Kirill. Only he was quiet, silent - sometimes he sounded small, like a mouse, from all that buzz.
On Christmas Eve, the neighbors came too. The house became cramped. Carols, laughter, plates clinking, grandfather reading a prayer, dad pouring stew, mom running around the stove. Kirill sat in the corner. He wanted everyone to talk more quietly. At least a little.
“Kyril, sing for us!” Uncle Mikhail shouted.
"I can't," the boy whispered.
"But you don't know how! Come on!"
Kirill quietly got up from the table. He took a piece of kalach in his palm. And quietly, before anyone noticed, he climbed the wooden ladder to the attic. It was quiet there. An old chest, cobwebs, old towels, my mother's wedding wreath under the linen.
Kirill sat down by the round window right under the roof. From there you can see the stars - many, many, like seeds in a poppy wreath. In the house below there is a distant hum, as if from behind the wall. And here - peace.
Suddenly, the boards creaked behind him. Kirill turned around. On the chest sat a tall old man in white robes with gold patterns. His golden mitre shone. In his hand was a crutch. His white beard reached his waist.
"Hello, Kirill," the elder said gently. "Can I sit here with you for a while?"
The boy nodded. He wasn't scared. Somehow he immediately understood who it was.
"I saw you run away from the noise. And you know, I understand you. I love silence too. When I was little, I used to hide too, sometimes in the attic or in the garden.".
Kirill looked surprised. "Were you hiding too?"«
— I hid. Because in silence you can hear what is lost in the noise: how the first snow falls on the needles. How the stars sing very quietly. How your heart beats - and someone else's heart is nearby. This is not weakness, Kirill. This is your gift. You know how to listen. This is a rarity.
Saint Nicholas placed his hand on Kirill's head. The boy felt: it became warmer inside, as if a small fire had been lit. And when he looked up, the old man was gone. Only on the chest lay a small wooden whistle with a star carved on it. Kirill took it. He blew softly, softly. And the whistle sang. His voice was like a clear stream. Kirill smiled. He understood: there was no need to change himself. The world needs silence too.
💛 It's not scary to be quiet. Silence can also be magical - if you know how to listen in it.