⏱ ~5 min reading
Bogdanchik woke up, and something seemed not as usual. The room was very quiet, as if the world had held its breath. The boy opened his eyes and saw a strange light on the ceiling - white, soft, as if someone had brought milk into the house.
He jumped out of bed in his teddy bear pajamas and leaned his nose against the cold window.
“Oh!” Bogdanchyk breathed.
Outside the window was a different world. Everything—the yard, the roof of the neighbor's house, the trees, even the old bench by the gate—had turned white-white, as if someone had poured a bag of sugar on the ground. Little sparks were slowly falling from the sky. They swirled in the air like fluff, and gently settled on everything they saw.
"Mom!" the boy shouted. "Mom, hurry up, look!"
Mom came from the kitchen. She was carrying a warm cup of milk, steam rising from it. Bogdanchyk pointed his finger out the window, unable to explain anything yet.
"It's snow, son," said his mother, sitting down next to him. "It comes when winter wants to cover the earth with a warm blanket. So that the roots of the trees and the grass of the sleeping ones don't freeze.".
"A blanket?" Bogdanchyk was surprised. He felt the snow with his eyes. It didn't look warm. It looked light and cold.
"Warm from the inside," Mom smiled. "We'll go out and see.".
Bogdanchyk couldn't wait a minute. Mom dressed him in a fluffy jumpsuit, a hat with a pompom, and warm gloves—red, with an embroidered snowflake on the right. The boy put his feet into his boots and ran out onto the porch.
The snow crunched under his boots—like a small, magical sound. «Crum-crum-crum.» Bogdanchik took another step—«crum.» And another—«crum.» He laughed out loud.
Snowflakes gently landed on his nose, shoulders, and gloves. One fell directly on his cheek, and Bogdanchyk felt it—cold, gentle, like a fairy's kiss.
He wanted to catch one. Just one to look at.
He held out his red-gloved hand, and soon the largest snowflake was sitting on it. Bogdanchyk raised it to his eyes.
"Oh..." he whispered.
The snowflake had six rays—like a small, radiant sun, only icy. Each ray shone white, with transparent patterns, like on grandma's frosty window.
"Mom!" shouted Bogdanchik. "Look at what she is! I'll take her home to show her!"
He carefully held the snowflake in his palm—so as not to lose it on the way—and ran to the house. He took off his gloves in front of the stove, where it was warm, and carefully spread his fingers.
But there was no snowflake. Just a small drop of water in the middle of the palm. A wet finger.
"I broke it!" Bogdanchyk screamed and cried. Tears rolled down his cheeks, as round as the drop on his hand. "Mom, I broke it! I didn't mean to!"
Mom hugged him tightly, and Bogdanchyk put his nose on her shoulder.
"Hush, son," said his mother gently. "You didn't break it. The snowflake just became different.".
“Another one?” Bogdanchyk raised his tear-filled eyes.
— Yes. It is now a drop of water. See? — Mom pointed to the shiny droplet on his palm. — Tomorrow this droplet will dry up and become fog. The fog will rise high, high, to the very clouds. And then — when it gets cold — it will turn into a snowflake again and fly back to us.
Bogdanchyk thought for a moment. He looked at the droplet, then at his mother.
"You mean... she'll come back?"
"Absolutely. And not just one. All the snowflakes you see in the sky are former raindrops. And when they become water again, they become a river, or a lake, or just dew on the grass. And then again — a snowflake. Nothing disappears in the world, son. It only changes.".
Bogdanchik was silent for a long time. Then he carefully wiped the drop on the sleeve of his pajamas and put his gloves back on. He wanted to go out again.
On the porch he stopped and raised his face to the sky. Snowflakes were flying towards him—dozens, hundreds, thousands. Each one a tiny miracle.
"See you later!" he whispered to one that sat on his cheek. "See you in the winter!"
“See you later!” he said to the next one.
— See you later! — and one more.
Mom stood on the porch and watched as her son greeted each snowflake individually. She smiled softly, because she knew that Bohdanchik had learned something very important that day. Not with his fingers. With his heart.
And in the evening, when he was already lying in bed and his mother was covering him with a warm blanket, Bogdanchik whispered in a sleepy voice:
— Mom… and when it’s spring, the rain is the same snowflake, right?
"The same one, son. Just in a new dress.".
Bogdanchyk smiled with his eyes closed. And fell asleep. And outside the window, quietly, quietly, as if on grandfather's felt slippers, the first snow continued to fall.
✨ Nothing in the world disappears forever - everything just changes its dress ✨