⏱ ~3 min reading
My mother sent Nikita to get bread. To the store - the one next to the house, across the yard.
"Just hurry up. It's cold. Put on a hat.".
Nikita put on a hat — blue, with a white pompom. A jacket. Gloves — thick, knitted by his grandmother. A small moose was embroidered on the right one. A Christmas tree on the left. Grandma said that way he wouldn't get confused about which one was which.
It was quiet in the yard. The snow hadn't fallen yet, but it had started to fall. Finely. One snowflake at a time. Ice was blowing on my cheeks. My nose was starting to turn red.
Snowflakes were flying. Slowly. Like dandelion fluff—only white. Nikita raised his hand—just because it tickled.
One fell on her left glove — on the Christmas tree. Small. White.
Nikita stopped.
A snowflake lay on the fluff. It wasn't just a dot. It was a real snowflake—with rays, like a star. Smaller than the nail of a little finger. When Nikita leaned closer, he saw: six rays. Each with small branches. Like a Christmas tree within a Christmas tree within a Christmas tree.
Nikita's mouth dropped open. He had seen snowflakes in the pictures. But this was a real one. The first one on his mitten. So thin, so beautiful, it seemed like it had been drawn by an invisible master.
It didn't melt. Because the mitten was cold.
And another one fell nearby - on a moose mitten. Also with six rays. But different. The rays branched out differently. The branches are shorter, more frequent. Like a winter pine.
Nikita carefully removed his left glove with his teeth. He held out his bare palm upwards.
A snowflake fell on my palm. A big one. It touched my skin and disappeared. A drop of water. That's it.
Nikita blinked. He reached out again and caught the second one. Same story. He touched it and it was gone. Only a small star of warm moisture.
Nikita laughed. To himself, loudly. He thought: "This is like a short kiss.".
He stood in the middle of the yard. He caught snowflakes with his bare palm. Each one was different. Each one was beautiful. Each one melted in a second.
The neighbor's dog, a small red-haired Lyalya, on a leash next to Uncle Petro's neighbor, looked at him with curiosity. Uncle Petro stopped.
— What are you doing, Nikita?
— I look at the snowflakes. They are all different.
Uncle Petro was silent for a minute. Then he nodded.
— Yes. They say that no two people in the world are the same. Do you know that?
— I didn't know.
"That's what my grandmother told me. No matter how many of them fall, each one has its own.".
Nikita thought. How many snowflakes are falling over the yard now? A hundred? A thousand? And over the city — a million? And each one is different. And none will be repeated. His head was spinning — from such a thought.
— Uncle Petro, why?
— Nature did it that way, my dear. Each one falls in its own way. Through its own winds, its own clouds. Its own temperature shapes it. Like every person — makes their life their own.
Nikita nodded. Something big felt in his chest. Warm. Even though it was cold outside.
Uncle Petro and Lyalya walked on. Nikita stood there for a while. He caught another snowflake. He watched it melt. Then he remembered the bread. He ran.
When I returned home, my mother greeted me with a smile.
— What took you so long?
— I was looking at snowflakes.
Mom didn't scold. She just smiled. She must have watched it herself once.
Over dinner, Nikita told his father.
— Dad. Did you know that no two snowflakes in the whole world are the same?
— I know, son.
"And I didn't know. Until today.".
"Now you know. And this knowledge of yours is also mine. Like a snowflake.".
Nikita laughed. He liked to think that way.
In the evening, before going to bed, he looked out the window for a long time. Snow was flying behind the glass. A million different snowflakes. Each one was its own.
Mykyta thought: «I am mine too.» And he fell asleep with this thought — warm as a glove with an embroidered Christmas tree.
💡 The smallest miracle is also a miracle if you know how to stop and look.