Bogdanko was seven years old, and he lived in an orphanage for children whose parents were at the front. His mother had long been in heaven, and his father was serving somewhere far, far away. Bogdanko didn't know where exactly—only that they were shooting there, and that his father had promised to return.
Once upon a time, dad wrote often. Then every letter came like a holiday. Bogdanko kissed the envelope, and the teacher Zina quietly read it out loud to him: "Dear son, I hug you tightly. Take care of yourself. Dad." Bogdanko knew these words by heart, but he loved it when Aunt Zina read them.
And then the letters suddenly stopped coming. For the first month, Bohdanko asked every day. For the second, every other day. For the third, once a week. Zina stroked his head: "Let's wait, son. The mail is slow in the winter. Don't worry.".
But the boy was worried. He began to hide under the blanket at night and there, in the darkness, whisper to his father: "If you can hear me, tell me you're alive. At least tell me somehow.".
Christmas Eve had come. Homemade garlands were hung in the orphanage, the cook had prepared dumplings with cherries. All the children gathered in the hall and sang carols. Bogdanko sat in a corner and was silent. He didn't feel like singing.
At night, when all the children were asleep, he quietly got up, took a chair, placed it by the window, and climbed onto it. He pressed his nose against the cold glass. Snow was falling in the yard — slowly, like in a fairy tale. Bohdanko folded his hands and whispered: "Saint Nicholas, I'm not asking for anything, just one thing: give me a letter from my father. Let him be alive. Please.".
The glass suddenly misted up—not from his breath, but from himself, the warmth of it. And through that mist, Bohdanko saw a figure. An old man in white and gold robes stood right outside the window, in the snow. His mitre shone, his staff glowed softly, his beard fell all the way to his waist.
Saint Nicholas smiled and put his hand to the glass. Bogdanko pressed his hand to it and was not frightened, only his heart beat faster. “I brought you something,” he heard a voice say, although the old man’s lips did not move. “Open the window.”.
Bogdanko carefully opened the small window. Saint Nicholas reached out and placed a rolled-up sheet of paper on the windowsill. The paper was ordinary, a little wrinkled, with a string tied instead of an envelope. "This is from your dad," said the Saint. "He wrote it a month ago. The letter took a long time. A very long time. But I delivered it.".
Bogdanko took the piece of paper with trembling hands. “And you… how do you know where Dad is?” “I know where all the dads who love their children are,” the old man said quietly. “I follow in their footsteps. Sometimes I bring bread. Sometimes I bring a letter.”.
The boy wanted to ask more, but Saint Nicholas was already retreating into the snowfall. "Read it. And know that your father is alive. And he is thinking about you right this minute.".
Bogdanko unfolded the sheet. It was his father's handwriting—the dots above the "i" were always a little slanted. "Dear son, I hug you tightly, tightly. I miss your laughter. Hold on, I'll be back. Take care of yourself. Dad." And at the bottom was a small drawing: a heart, and in it the word "Bogdanko.".
The boy held the letter to his chest and cried—but they were tears that made the heart feel lighter. In the morning he showed the letter to Aunt Zina. She looked at it for a long time, was silent, and then hugged him as tightly as ever.
Bogdanko put the letter under his pillow. And from that night on, he never asked again if the news would come. Because he knew: his father could hear him. And Saint Nicholas knows all the roads — even those along which no mail has yet passed.
💛 Love will not be lost even on the farthest path.