⏱ ~4 min reading
Ostap and Daryna were brother and sister. He was eight, she was six. They lived in a small house on the outskirts, in a room divided by an old bookcase: half Ostap's, half Daryna's. On the bookcase stood their joint circus of small toy animals, in which they occasionally put on big performances.
There was no performance that day. There was a fight.
Daryna took Ostap's favorite marker — blue, with a thin tip — to add ears to the hare in the coloring book. The marker was lying in the pencil case, she didn't ask for it. She just took it. And when she was returning — she accidentally pressed too hard, and the tip of the marker broke. The thin rod bent inward.
Ostap saw it. His heart beat angrily.
"You broke it!" he shouted. "Who gave you permission to take it?!"
"I didn't know it would break..." Darina muttered.
"You should have asked! Don't touch mine!"
Daria sulked. Then red drops of tears, once or twice, ran down her cheeks.
"I didn't want to..."
"You always ruin my things! Get out of here!"
Daria grabbed her teddy bear and ran behind the closet to her other half. She sat on the rug, hugged the teddy bear, and cried quietly.
Ostap was left with the broken marker in his hands. His heart was still pounding. He kept repeating to himself: "It's not my fault. I didn't break it. Why is she getting into my things?".
The evening passed. Mom came in and saw that the room was as quiet as before a thunderstorm, but she didn't scold anyone. She just said quietly:
— Dinner is on the table.
The children ate dinner in silence. They looked in different directions. Dad tried to start a conversation — about the weather, about the new cartoon. But the children just nodded. It was as if an invisible wall had grown between them — thick, cold, made of brick.
At night, mom put each one to bed separately. She kissed Darina's bangs. She kissed Ostap's forehead. She turned off the light.
Ostap lay in the darkness. He listened. Behind the closet, his sister sobbed softly—again, again. Then she fell silent. She fell asleep.
And Ostap couldn't sleep. He was tossing and turning from side to side. He was right — the marker was his, Daria didn't ask. Everything is correct. Then why is his chest so… uncomfortable? It's like there's a prickly hedgehog sitting there and not letting him turn over onto his back.
The boy tried to think about something else. About tomorrow's physical education. About raisin cookies. About the new construction set. But the hedgehog kept poking around.
Finally fell asleep sometime around morning.
When he woke up, the sun was already peeking into the room. It lay in a long strip on the wooden floor - warm, golden. A soft snore could be heard behind the wardrobe. Daria was still asleep.
Ostap sat down. He stood up quietly. He tiptoed around the closet.
Daria was lying, holding the teddy bear to her cheek. The pillow under her cheek was a little wet from yesterday's tears. Her eyes were still a little swollen. In the sunlight, a small tear trail could be seen from her cheek to the pillow.
Ostap's heart sank.
He stood in the doorway of their shared room, on the very border between the halves. He was ready to turn around and leave. To tell himself, «later.» To tell himself, «let her go first.» To tell himself, «it’s not my fault.».
But instead, he took a step forward. He sat down on the rug next to his sister. And quietly, just for the two of them, he whispered one little word.
— Sorry.
Daria opened her eyes. She looked at her brother. She didn't say anything. She just reached out and hugged him around the neck. She pressed her wet cheek to his pajama top. And she cried. But this time — quietly, with relief, without pain.
"And forgive me," she whispered. "I didn't ask. I didn't think.".
"That marker is crap," Ostap also snorted. "We'll buy a new one. Or Dad will fix it.".
They sat on the rug, their arms around each other, watching the streak of sunlight creep across the floor. The invisible wall between their halves—the one that had been so thick and cold last night—had disappeared. Not a brick remained.
The kitchen smelled of hot pancakes. You could hear your mother humming a soft song she had sung when they were very young.
At breakfast, Dad looked at the children. They were sitting side by side, and Ostap was sharing his cherry jam with Daryna. Dad smiled at Mom — well, without words, of course.
Since then, Ostap knew one quiet and simple thing. A small word can be very heavy - while it lies in the heart and is not said. But as soon as you say it - it becomes light. And it works wonders. Because "sorry" does not take away the rightness and does not make it smaller. It simply builds a bridge between people where a wall once stood. And on that bridge you can walk to each other again - back and forth, as much as you need, for the rest of your life.
✨ The little word "sorry" destroys the strongest walls ✨