Flower fragrance fairy

⏱ ~6 min reading

In a large house with green shutters and a tiled roof, on a round table in the dining room, there was a glass jug. In the jug was a bouquet: a few sprigs of lilac, two white roses, three mint stalks. And in the very middle of the bouquet, among the petals, lived a fairy. So small that you wouldn't see her right away - smaller than a sunny bunny, lighter than a dandelion fluff. Her name was Zapashka.

The perfumer did the most delicate work in the world. She spread fragrances. In the morning she would climb out of a lilac petal, spread her thin wings and start circling the room. Wherever she flew, the scent would go. On the bookshelf, there was the smell of lilac. Above the sofa, there was the smell of mint. Near the basket of yarn, there was the smell of a warm rose.

The people in the house didn't notice anything. They didn't know that a fairy lived in their bouquet. But when they entered the dining room, they would sigh deeply and say:

"It smells so good in here. It's like summer in the room.".

This was Zapashka's work. And she loved it as a swallow loves its sky.

Then one evening something serious happened in the house. Zapashka woke up to harsh voices. Dad and Mom were standing by the window and arguing - loudly, unevenly, with harsh words that jingled in the air like a dropped plate. What caused it - Zapashka didn't quite understand. It seemed to be because someone hadn't gone anywhere, someone had forgotten something, someone hadn't told someone. It often happens to adults: a small spark - and a big fire.

The child—little Tarasik—was sitting at the table, his head bowed. There was a plate of porridge in front of him, but he didn't pick up the spoon. He just stared at the porridge and didn't blink.

Then Dad sat down in his chair. Mom sat down in hers. And the room fell into a silence that would have made them quarrel again—because in the silence you could hear the clock on the wall ticking: tick, tick, tick. Each tick was like a small pebble falling into an empty well.

Zapashka sat in the bouquet and watched. Her little heart sank. She was very small - she could neither speak nor reconcile people. But she could do one thing: spread the scent. And Zapashka thought: I'll try.

She spread her wings. She flew out of the lilac. She circled the jug three times - as if she was warming the petals with her little breath. And she began to circle the room slowly, slowly, writing out thin eights in the air.

The room began to fill with a scent. At first, barely. The smell of May lilacs, the same ones that grow outside Grandma's house during the holidays. Then the warm, honeyed scent of a rose that has warmed up in the sun. Then a fresh, cool note of mint, as if someone had plucked a leaf and rubbed it between their fingers.

For a moment, no one noticed anything.

Then dad took a deep breath. He didn't understand why. The air just became thick with something very familiar. He closed his eyes. And suddenly he remembered how twenty years ago he was standing by the fence, holding a large bouquet of lilacs in his hands, and a young girl in a white dress, with a braid down to her waist, was walking towards him. That girl was Tarasyk's mother. Then, a long time ago, he had plucked this lilac for her from a bush near the old school. And she smiled so that everything inside him turned upside down.

Dad slowly opened his eyes. He looked at Mom. Something softened in his gaze.

Mom also took a deep breath. She herself was not expecting it. But in this smell, another picture suddenly came to life - how her mother, Grandma Zoya, was bending over a bush of daisies in the garden and saying to Mom's little hand: "Look, these white ones are the most tender. You can't tear them too much." Mom closed her eyes for a moment. And she also smiled, only with one corner of her lips.

Tarasik raised his head. He saw that his father was looking at his mother. That his mother was looking at his father. That the room was quiet—but the silence was different, warm, not empty. And he said in a small voice:

— I love you.

These were three simple words. But like the last drop that overflows the cup, they changed everything.

Mom got up from her chair, went over to Tarasyk, and hugged him. Dad followed suit, hugging them both. They stood there for a long, long time—as if they had forgotten that they should ever untie their hands. The quarrel disappeared like morning dew from the grass. It didn't even leave a trace.

The little bird sat back down in the lilac. She was tired—it had been hard for her to fly for so long, her wings were trembling. But she was so warm inside that she didn't even notice her tiredness.

Because smell is also a form of kindness. Zapashka understood this today. Sometimes you don't need words. Sometimes you don't need advice. Sometimes one delicate wave of aroma is enough to make people remember why they are together. To make dad remember the bouquet by the fence. To make mom remember grandma's daisies. To make Tarasik feel: now you can say the most important thing.

Then the evening continued. Dad brewed tea — real tea, with blackcurrant leaves that had been dried since the summer. Mom cut a cheesecake — the one that was left over from dinner, but it turned out to be tastier in the evening. Tarasik didn’t eat in silence anymore — he was telling something about a school teacher who had brought a live beetle to class today, and then her little Stepa shouted from the second row, «Where did it get to?» and everyone laughed. Dad laughed with Tarasik, putting his hand on his shoulder. Mom laughed, pouring more tea into the cup.

And Zapashka sat in the bouquet, her eyes closed, and quietly happy. Her little heart was beating steadily. Her wings folded. She herself smelled now — of warmth, home, a little joy that she had managed to bring back.

From that day on, she had more work to do. Because every time things got tough at home — and things get tough in homes, that's normal — Zapashka would fly out of the petals again. If the bouquet ran out of flowers, mom would buy fresh ones. If it was winter and there weren't any fresh ones — dad would bring a sprig of spruce from the forest, and Zapashka would move there, spreading a resinous, New Year's scent. One summer, Tarasik himself brought a handful of field daisies to a jug — and Zapashka happily circled around them for half an hour.

Her invisible work continued. She spread the scent. And with the scent — memories, warmth, softness. And every time — joy returned. With every sigh of the people in her house.