Tarasyk was nine, and his brother Mikhas was only five. They used to run around the yard together, sculpt a snow woman, and argue about whose snowball would fly farther. But Mikhas hadn't gotten out of bed for a month.
The doctor came often. He stroked Mykhas' head, gave his mother some drops and said quietly: "Let's wait, let's wait." But Tarasyk didn't know how to wait. He sat by his brother's bed and read him fairy tales - even those that Mykhas already knew by heart.
"Is it true," Mykhas asked in a weak voice, "that Saint Nicholas comes to Christmas Eve?" "It's true," Tarasyk said firmly. "And this year he'll come to you." "And what if he forgets?" "He won't forget," promised the older brother. "I'll remind him.".
Christmas Eve had come. Mom was cooking a Lenten dinner, Dad was quietly carrying firewood. The house smelled of honey and dried apples. Mykhas dozed off, holding in his hand a small wooden bird that his grandfather had once carved for him.
Tarasik waited until his parents went out to the neighbors to invite them to carol singing. Then he put on his fur coat, took a candle from the shelf, and went outside. The blizzard threw handfuls of snow in his face. The boy gritted his teeth and went to the old fir tree that grew behind the garden—the place where, as his grandmother said, Saint Nicholas comes first.
The fir tree stood majestically, dusted with silver. Tarasik placed a candle near its roots and shaded it from the wind with his palms. “Saint Nicholas,” he whispered. “I know you don’t bring such gifts. But I’m not asking for myself. Let Mykhas get up. Let him run with me in the snow just once more. I’ll give you all my gifts—forever.”.
The wind suddenly died down. Snowflakes fell slowly, like feathers. And Tarasik felt someone standing behind him. He turned around and froze.
Amidst the blizzard stood a tall old man in white and gold robes. His mitre shone even in the twilight, and his staff was decorated with silver carvings. His white beard swayed softly in the wind. “I heard you, Tarasik,” said Saint Nicholas. His voice was warm, like a stove at home.
Tarasik wanted to say something, but his throat was dry. He just held out his hands—not for a gift, but as one holds them out to a loved one. “Your candle burns very brightly,” said the old man. “Do you know why? Because it was lit by the love of a brother. I see such lights from afar.
He bent down and placed his candle next to Tarasykov's—a thin silver one with a soft golden light. "Take it home. Place it by Mikhas's bed. Don't blow it out—let it burn out on its own.".
Tarasik carefully took the candle. It didn't burn him, it just warmed his hands. He ran home, hiding the light under the hem of his coat. His mother was already looking for him with a flashlight, but when she saw her son's face, she didn't scold him - she just hugged him tightly.
A silver candle stood on the table by Mikhas's bed all night. Tarasik did not take his eyes off it. At dawn the light quietly went out - and it was then that Mikhas opened his eyes. He smiled and said in a clear, not weak voice: "Tarasik, I dreamed that we were running with you in the snow.".
A week passed, and Mykhas was already sitting. Another week passed — and the two of them were sculpting a snow woman. And Tarasyk hid the silver stub in his grandmother's box. Because you don't throw away such things. You keep such things for a lifetime.
💛 Brotherly love is also a small miracle that can heal.