⏱ ~4 min reading
Tarasik woke up at dawn because something softly rang at the window - as if someone had run a furry paw across the glass. He got out of bed and looked out into the yard of his grandmother's house. There was a special silence in the yard: not a rooster crowed, not a duck quacked, not a leaf on the apple tree moved.
And over the lake that glittered beyond the garden lay a fog. Oh, what a fog! Thick as whipped cream, white as milk in a jug. It didn't just stand there—it swayed slowly, as if someone big and invisible were breathing beneath its blanket.
"It's strange," whispered Tarasik. "Last night the lake was as clear as glass.".
The boy pulled his jacket over his pajamas, put on his rubber boots, and quietly went outside. Grandma was still asleep, and he didn't want to wake her. Tarasik walked along the path, past the currant bushes, past the old pear tree that creaked its branches, and stopped near the bridge.
The fog was so close that you could touch it with your palm. And suddenly Tarasik heard: in the depths of the white cloud, someone was singing. The voice was low, gentle, a little creaky - like an old wooden chest in which fairy tales are kept.
“Who’s there?” the boy asked in a whisper. His heart beat faster.
The singing stopped. Something moved in the fog—large, slow, unhurried. Tarasik took a step back. He felt a little scared: what if it was the waterman his grandmother had told him about? What if he was angry?
But then a small golden light emerged from the fog, just like a candle in a glass. It flew up to Tarasik, circled around his hat, and then disappeared again into the white. And a voice sang:
"Don't be afraid, little one. I'm just playing with the wind.".
Tarasik froze. Then he carefully stepped onto the bridge.
“Who are you?” he asked, holding onto the railing.
The fog parted, and the boy saw the old grandfather. He was all woven from the fog: his beard was like a cloud, his eyes were like two drops of dew, and instead of clothes he wore a long white shirt made of cobwebs. The grandfather sat on the waves, as if on a bench, and smiled so warmly that Tarasik's fear melted away like a snowflake in his palm.
"I am Ozerko," said Grandfather. "I have lived here for three hundred years. And the fog is my blanket. When the Breeze comes in the morning, we play with him: he swings me, and I catch his tail. Only we play quietly so as not to scare anyone.".
“Why haven’t I seen you before?” the boy asked.
"Because I got up late," laughed Ozerko, and his laughter rang out like droplets on water lily leaves. "The fog loves the very first rays. And the very first rays love those who are not too lazy to get out of bed.".
Tarasik sat down on the bridge. The same golden light emerged from the fog and sat on his knee, warm as a kitten.
"This is Breeze," Ozerko explained. "He's small today because he hasn't woken up yet. And when he grows up, he'll stroke your hair and fly to wake up the dormouse in Grandma's garden.".
The boy and grandfather sat in silence. Somewhere in the distance a duck quacked. The first pink stripes appeared on the water - the sun woke up.
“Can I come again tomorrow?” Tarasyk asked.
"Come," Ozerko nodded. "Just don't tell everyone. The Fog loves those who know how to keep secrets.".
The fog began to slowly melt. Ozerko waved his hand at Tarasyk, resembling a cloud, and disappeared into the water—gently, without a single splash. Only a small circle remained on the water, as if from a falling petal.
Tarasik returned to the house. Grandma was already busy in the kitchen, baking pancakes.
“Where have you been, my falcon?” she asked.
"I was looking at the fog," the boy smiled. "You know, grandma, it's not scary at all. It's kind.".
The grandmother looked at her grandson with a gentle smile and put another pancake on his plate - the largest one, with honey. And outside the window the lake was already shining clean, and only a small white cloud floated above the water - as if someone was waving goodbye.
✨ What we don't understand is often more beautiful than our fears ✨