Artem had just turned six. A month ago, he and his mother arrived in an unfamiliar village — far from his home, far from the yard where the old walnut tree grew, far from the basket of toys that stood by his bed.
Now they lived in a small room with Grandma Paraska, who took them in. Grandma was kind, baked potato pies and called Artemko "Falcon". But the walls here were foreign. The pillow did not smell like his pillow. And in the evening, when Mom turned out the light, Artemko closed his eyes and tried to remember his hut - exactly as it was.
"Mom," he asked in a whisper, "is our house still standing?" Mom was silent for a long time. "It's standing, son. We just can't go there right now." "And my toys?" "The toys are waiting. When everything is over, we'll go get them.".
Artemko had only one thing from home: a small wooden car, which he kept in his pocket when they were running away. He would put it under his pillow at night and fall asleep holding it in his hand.
Christmas Eve came. Grandma Paraska covered the table with a white towel, set out kutya, uzvar, and twelve dishes — as it should be. The neighbors came to sing carols. Artemko watched them from behind his mother's back and thought: "In our village, they sing carols differently. Our elder Hrytsko sings very high.".
At night the boy couldn't sleep. He lay there listening to someone else's clock ticking. And suddenly there was a soft knock. Not on the door. On the window. Artemko got up and went over on tiptoe.
Behind the window stood an old man in white and gold robes. On his head was a golden mitre, in his hand a staff with a carved top. His white beard was lightly dusted with snow. His eyes were looking straight at Artemko - calmly, gently. "Don't be afraid," the boy heard, although the old man did not open his mouth. "I am Saint Nicholas. I have been looking for you for a long time.".
“How did you find me?” Artemko whispered. “I’m not at home now.” “I find all children by the light they carry in their chests,” the old man replied. “I recognized your light right away.”.
Saint Nicholas raised his hand, and a small bundle tied with red thread appeared on the windowsill. Artemko carefully opened the window and took it - the bundle was warm. "Unfold it," the old man nodded.
Inside were three things: a small wooden grasshopper - exactly like the one he had at home; a handful of dry walnut leaf petals - and Artemko immediately recognized the smell of his yard; and a small straw star, the kind his great-grandmother had once woven. "This is from your house," the Saint said quietly. "I was there. Your house remembers you. And it's waiting.".
Artemko pressed the grasshopper to his chest. His eyes filled with tears—but not sad ones, but some warm ones that made it easier to breathe. “And when will I return?” he asked. “I don’t know that,” the old man said honestly. “But I know something else: where they love you, that’s your home. In this house, they love you. And your mother is nearby. And Grandma Paraska. The walls are alien only until you embrace them.
He blessed the boy with his staff and quietly disappeared into the snowfall. Artemko stood by the window for a long time, until his fingers went numb.
In the morning he showed his mother the grasshopper, the leaves and the straw star. Mother cried and laughed at the same time. Artemko hung the star above his bed. And he put the grasshopper on the windowsill - next to his grandmother's towels. And for the first time in a month he felt a little at home here, in this small room.
💛 Home is not walls, but arms that hug you.