⏱ ~3 min reading
Grandma's house smelled of dried apples and mint tea. A ginger cat was dozing on the window, and wood was crackling softly in the stove. Ivanko came to visit — his mother had left him for the whole evening.
"Sit down next to me, little swallow," said the grandmother and patted the soft cushion on the sofa.
Ivanko sat down. He was holding a phone in his hand—some kind of game was playing on it, with bright candies falling and exploding.
— I'll tell you a story. About the miller and the wind. Do you want to?
"Uh-huh," Ivanko replied, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Grandma began. Her voice was quiet, with gentle ripples—like a stream between stones. But Ivanko didn't quite hear. He was listening to the sweets. Grandma saw this and wasn't angry—she just sighed and patted his head.
Suddenly the cat jumped down from the window. He walked across the room, rubbed against Grandma's legs, and laid his red head on her lap. He leaned his ear against hers, as if he wanted to listen too.
Ivanko looked up.
Grandma continued to tell stories. About the mill that stood on a hill. About the wind that carried the scent of distant forests on its wings. About the girl who cooked porridge for the miller and never laughed.
Something in the grandmother's voice stopped Ivanko. He looked at the phone - and unexpectedly for himself pressed a button. The screen went blank. Ivanko put the phone on the table - far away, out of reach.
— And what next?
Grandma smiled.
She told a long story. About how the miller listened to the wind and one day the wind brought him a song. About how the girl heard this song and laughed for the first time. About the white dove that sat on the roof of the mill, like a sign.
Ivanko didn't notice how he leaned his shoulder against his grandmother's. He didn't notice how it got dark outside. He didn't notice how the cat purred - deep, chesty, like a small motor.
When Grandma finished, the room was quiet. Only the wood was crackling in the stove.
"Grandma," said Ivanko. "Do you know another one?"
— I know a lot.
— Tell me more.
Grandma poured him a cup of warm tea. She put a spoonful of raspberry jam at the bottom—a cherry droplet that slowly blossomed into a pink cloud.
"Listen, swallow. Listen carefully - there, in fairy tales, every word has its place.".
Ivanko held the cup in both hands. He looked into his grandmother's eyes. Her eyes had little rays at the corners—as if a smile remained there, even when her lips were calm.
The second tale was about a fox and a crane. The third was about a girl who lost her shoe in the grass. The fourth was about a rooster who couldn't crow at dawn.
When mom came to pick him up, Ivanko didn't want to go.
— Another one, grandma!
"Tomorrow, swallow. I'll tell you all evening.".
On the way home, Ivanko was silent. The song of the wind, and the dove on the roof of the mill, and the girl who laughed for the first time were spinning in his head. He held his mother's hand tightly.
— Mom.
— What, son?
— Grandma tells stories better than all the cartoons combined.
Mom smiled.
At home, Ivanko put the phone on the shelf. By himself, without a reminder. And the next Saturday, he came to his grandmother and immediately asked:
— And the fairy tale?
Grandma patted the pillow next to her.
The cat was already waiting on his knees.
💡 Listening carefully is also respectful.