⏱ ~5 min reading
Mitya lived with his grandmother in the village - he had come for the winter holidays. Grandma's house was the third from the road. Two plots away was Grandpa Andriy's house. Mitya knew him well: in the summer, Grandpa Andriy gave them apples from his old garden, and he also treated Mitya to pumpkin seeds.
Grandfather Andriy lived alone. His wife had died a long time ago, his son worked in Zaporizhia and rarely came. Grandfather walked slowly - his knees hurt, so in the winter he hardly left the yard.
On Saturday night, a heavy snow fell. Mitya woke up and looked out the window to see that the village had turned white. Everything was covered up to his knees. The silence was such that it only happens in deep snow.
Grandma was already up. Dumplings with potatoes were steaming on the table. Mitya had breakfast and went out to clear the path to the gate. Grandma always said: "The first snow is the first job.".
The shovel was heavy, but Mitya managed. He threw the snow aside, into the drift, and steam came out of his mouth. His ears burned from the frost.
When he finished his path, he looked along the street. Aunt Lesya's yard was cleared (her son had already done it). Stepan Grigorovich's yard was also cleared.
But there was a pile of snow near Grandpa Andriy's gate. Grandpa was probably still asleep. Or he just couldn't get out.
Mitya hesitated. He thought. He looked at his shovel.
Then, quietly, without telling my grandmother, I walked along the street to Grandpa Andriy's gate.
The snow there was deep and heavy. Mitya dug for a long time. He threw the snow to the right — into the field. Once he fell almost up to his waist and barely got out. But he continued.
When he had cleared half a meter of the path, he was out of breath. He looked at his grandfather's house. There was no light in the window. His grandfather didn't see him.
Mitya smiled. He liked the feeling. As if he was doing something important and no one knew.
He dug for a long time. He cleared a path right up to the very edges. And now the gate was open. Mitya closed it carefully so that it wouldn't creak. He looked at his work. A thin path in the middle of a white sea.
Then he quickly ran home.
Grandma asked:
— Where have you been, snowman?
— Yes, in the yard.
Grandma looked at him suspiciously, but said nothing. She just poured him some hot tea.
Two days later, snow fell again—less, but enough to dust everything. Mitya woke up early again. He took a shovel again. He went to Grandpa Andriy's again.
This time it was easier to dig - I already knew the places where it was deeper. I cleared it and came back.
The third day. The fourth. On the fifth day the wind had already picked up overnight. Mitya walked every morning.
One day, when he was almost finished, the door to the house creaked. Mitya froze.
Grandfather Andrey stood on the threshold. In an old sheepskin coat, in felt boots. Gray beard. He stood, looking.
Mitya didn't know what to say.
"Well, come in, son," said Grandfather Andrey. "You'll have breakfast with me.".
— I already had breakfast, Grandpa.
— And tea?
Mitya came in. The house smelled of dry herbs and apples—old ones, the kind that filled the whole room with their scent.
Grandfather put on the samovar. He poured tea into an enamel mug. He put two lumps of sugar on the saucer.
"I noticed it a long time ago," said Grandfather Andrey, stirring slowly. "The first day I thought my son had arrived. I looked - no one. The second day I thought it was a neighbor. I looked - no one either. And on the third day at night I looked out - I saw a small figure. I thought: "That's it for you.".
Mitya looked into the cup.
"Why didn't you tell me, son?"
“I… I don’t know.”.
— Think about it.
Mitya thought. It was hard for him to say.
"I... I wanted it to be a gift. If I say it, it's like I want to thank you. And if I don't say it, it's just that. It's like the snow cleared itself.".
Grandfather Andrey smiled. His eyes—light gray with green specks—became kind, kind.
— You know, son, there are two kinds of kindness. One is loud. The one that is for people. It wants to be seen, thanked. That's not bad either. And there is quiet. The one that is not for anyone. Simply because it's necessary.
Mitya nodded.
“And the quiet one is the best?” he asked.
Grandfather Andriy remained silent.
"Not the best. Just different. You're quiet. I found you anyway, but I won't tell anyone. It's our secret.".
Mitya drank tea. It was hot, fragrant, with dried pears.
When Mitya went home, his chest was warm. Not from the tea.
He spent the entire week of vacation clearing snow near Grandpa Andriy's gate. He didn't tell Grandma. Grandma probably guessed - she didn't ask anything either.
When Mitya was returning to the city, grandfather Andrey went out to the gate.
"Come, son. For the summer.".
— I'll come.
"And then we'll see. Maybe by then my son will come to clean up. Or maybe you will come again.".
Mitya smiled.
On the bus, he looked out the window. The fields were white, the roads were cleared—by someone he didn't know.
Someone somewhere was quietly doing good right now. Without words. Without applause.
And this made the snowy road warmer.
💡 Kindness is quiet work.