⏱ ~6 min reading
In a large city park, where old maple trees stood in rows along the alleys, there lived a fairy. Her name was Shurkh. She herself was no bigger than a maple leaf - tiny, in a golden-orange dress, with wings that rustled like dry grass underfoot. Hence the name.
Shurkh had a job. The most important job in the world, at least, that's what she said. In the fall, when the sky grew colder and the sun sank lower and lower, Shurkh would take a small golden brush and begin to paint the leaves.
In the morning she would wake up in the hollow of a tree, stretch, wipe the dew from her wings, and fly to work. She would sit on the petiole of a leaf and dip her brush in her own fairy paint. That paint was unusual. Yellow, like buckwheat honey. Red, like ripe rose hips. Orange, like orange peels in sugar.
"We'll make this one golden," muttered Shurkh, going around the leaf from all sides. "And this one with a red center and yellow edges. But we'll give this one two colors - it will be like a fire.".
None of the people saw her. Because to see Shurkh, one had to stop. Really. And not for a moment — but so that the rush inside would quiet down.
Then one October day, a little girl ran through the park. Her name was Sonya. Sonya was wearing red boots and a knitted hat with a pompom. She ran with her arms outstretched, catching the leaves falling from the maple trees with her palms. One - once. The second - two. The third - three.
And then she saw the most beautiful leaf. It was slowly whirling in the wind - golden around the edges, red in the middle, with a thin orange stripe running down the entire petiole. Sonya rushed after it. She held out her hand.
And froze.
On the leaf, in the middle of the orange strip, stood a tiny, tiny fairy. She had golden curls, red cheeks, and a golden brush in her hand. She looked at Sonya with big, frightened eyes.
"I'm a fairy!" Shurkh squeaked. "Please don't hurt me!"
Sonya froze. Her eyes became round and round. Her palm was halfway.
«"If I squeeze it," she thought, "I'll catch it. I can bring it home, put it in a box. Show it to everyone.".
This thought flashed by—and a second one followed. The Shurkh was very small. Very light. You could squeeze it—and it probably wouldn't fit. And the box is not a park. It's not maples. It's not the wind.
Sonya slowly lowered her palm. Very carefully, so as not to shake the leaf. She raised her hand to a thin maple branch. And whispered:
"I'll put you here. On a branch. Okay?"
Shurkh nodded, not believing her eyes. Sonya very, very carefully tilted the leaf towards the twig. Shurkh jumped over. She held her brush like a sword, just in case. But Sonya had done nothing wrong. She took a quiet breath, took a step back, and whispered:
"You're so small. And so beautiful. I don't want to hurt you.".
Shurkh cried for a moment. A thin dewdrop rolled down her cheek and fell on the leaf - where the paint had not yet dried. A small transparent droplet appeared on the leaf, like a drop of amber.
“Thank you, girl,” said Shurkh. Her voice was like the rustle of spiderwebs in the wind. “I was so afraid they would squeeze me.”.
"I would never," Sonya said seriously.
— What is your name?
— Sonya.
— And I'm Shurkh.
They fell silent. Somewhere over the park a bird flew. Somewhere down the alley children were flying a kite. Shurkh rubbed her wings and looked at the girl.
"Listen, Sonya. I have a job. I'm painting leaves. If you want, sit on the bench, I'll show you.".
Sonya nodded. She quietly retreated to the old wooden bench under the maple tree—the one where Grandma liked to sit when she took Sonya to the park—and carefully sat down. She pulled her legs up. She placed her hands on her knees. And began to look.
Shurkh returned to work. She sat down on a new leaf. She dipped her brush in gold paint. She drew a long line. She switched to red. She made a round spot. She blew on it - the paint dried. She flew to the next leaf. She made it all red.
Sonya watched, breathless. The wind rustled in the park, the leaves fell slowly, slowly, and each turn of it now seemed like a miracle. Shurkh worked seriously. Sometimes she turned away and waved at Sonya with her little hand.
"See how?" she called out in a thin voice. "Here it's yellow, there it's red!"
"I see!" Sonya replied in a whisper. "Very nice!"
As the sun began to set, Sonya got up from the bench. Shurkh waved goodbye to her.
"Come again," she called. "I'm here until November.".
"I'll come," Sonya promised.
And she came. The next day. And the day after that. And every autumn since then — as long as the maples stood and as long as she had red boots. She sat on her bench, held her warm hands in her pocket, and watched Shurkh paint the leaves. They became friends. The little secret of the big park.
When Sonya grew up—became an adult aunt with her own daughter—she brought her little Sonya to the same park. She sat on the same bench. And said quietly:
"Look carefully. Don't catch. Just look.".
Sonechka squinted, fell silent — and in a minute she saw what her mother had once seen. A little fairy in a golden dress, with a thin brush in her hand. Shurkh waved to both of them — both Sonechka and Sonechka. And rushed on — to paint the leaves.
“Why are you seeing her?” Sonechka asked in a whisper as they walked home.
— Because I didn't try to catch it, — Mom smiled. — Miracles happen, daughter. Only not with those who grab it. But with those who know how to contemplate. Nature willingly shares beauty — but only with those who don't clench it in their fist.
Sonechka nodded. She understood everything. And that evening she looked out the window for a long time — at the small maple tree in the yard, burning gold against the evening sun. And she thought about Shurkh. And she smiled.
✨ Miracles happen to those who know how to contemplate, not grab ✨