⏱ ~4 min reading
In a big, big city, where many, many people live, there is one little secret. The adults don't know it. It's very easy to miss it. But if you're careful and look at your pillow in the evening, you'll see it.
On every child's pillow, in the very corner where the soft fabric forms a small fold, sits one tiny creature. It's called a snowman. Snowmen are a very tiny people. No bigger than a butterfly, even smaller than a dandelion fluff. If you sit very close and look very carefully, you can see: a small fluffy cloud, with two big quiet eyes and thin legs that are conveniently folded under itself.
Snowshoes are very fluffy. If you touch them, they are warm, like a mother's cheek in the morning. They are soft, like the fur of a little kitten. And they are not at all afraid of children. Because they live for children.
Every sleeper carries within him one quiet dream.
How is that? Inside each little fluffy cloud, at its very heart, lies, curled up like a flower before dawn, a dream. Special. Chosen just for this child. For no one else. If you sleep on your pillow, the dream will be yours. If your little brother sleeps on his, he will have his own. Everyone has their own.
Snowmen don't know how to speak words. They just look. With big, big eyes, full of quiet light. Like a kind grandmother looks at her grandson. Like a mother looks at a sleeping child. Like a full moon looks at a night field. Without words. Just with love.
When your mother puts you to bed in the evening, strokes your head, and turns off the light, the snob on your pillow raises his head and starts listening. Have you closed your eyes yet? Is your breathing becoming even?
When you finally fall asleep, the snob quietly gets up, comes closer to your ear and begins to open. At first, like a flower that slowly opens its petals at dawn. First one petal. Then a second. A third. And in the very center of the snob, sleep quietly glows.
Sleep comes—gentle as a breath, soft as a cloud, warm as freshly baked bread. It gently falls on your ear, then on your forehead, then envelops your entire head—and you begin to see your quiet nighttime tale.
But dreamers don't just take their dreams for granted. They don't make them up. They go and collect them in the best places in the world.
Some of the snobs fly into the forest. There, among the old pines and young birches, they collect dreams about a quiet forest glade, about a little hedgehog carrying an apple on its thorns, about a strawberry bush peeking out from under the fern. These dreams smell of resin and young grass.
Other snobs fly to the river. Over the quiet water, where tufts of water lilies sway, they collect dreams about a silver fish, about an old wooden bench by the shore, about the sun gently caressing the water. These dreams smell of reeds and coolness.
Still others fly to their grandmother's garden. Among the ripe pears and apples, in the grass where the warmth of the midday sun still lies, they collect dreams of warm pies, of their grandmother's gentle hands, of a yellow kitten sleeping on a bench. These dreams smell of jams and freshly washed towels.
Each sleeper chooses one spot, takes one quiet nap, and returns to his pillow. And waits for his child to fall asleep.
If you woke up in the morning with a smile on your face, your sleepyhead worked hard today. He brought you a good night's sleep. He was there all night.
So, my little child, when you wake up, before you jump out of bed, pause for a moment. Look at your pillow. Snobs hide from the light of day, you won't see them. But if you say "thank you" in your mind, they will hear. Snobs listen with their hearts, not their ears. They know when they are thanked.
And then, the next night, your snob will fly away again. He will find an even better place. Maybe to the playground where you laughed with your mother. Maybe to the sea where you once saw a turtle. Maybe to the mountain forest where a stream gurgles. He will bring you another dream. And another. And another.
Snobs love it when children thank them. It's their only joy. It's their pay for their work.
And now — close your eyes. Your dream is already on your pillow. It has already opened a little, like a flower before dawn. Sleep is already coming. It is already close. It is already resting on your ear.
Breathe evenly. Breathe softly. Snowbeard looks at you with his big, quiet eyes and waits for you to fall asleep.
Good night, little one. Sleep well. Your friend is near.
✨ Good dreams come to those who know how to say thank you quietly ✨