(short story)

Vasyl sat in the yard outside his house, staring at the snow-covered horizon. The night was coming on quietly, wrapping everything around him in a shining blanket of silver snow. The frost crackled pleasantly underfoot, and long icicles glittered on the roofs of neighboring houses. In his hands, Vasyl held an old flute his father had given him before he left for the Russian-Ukrainian war. Since then, the house, once full of laughter and song, had fallen into a sad silence. No holiday had the warmth to which the boy was so accustomed.

Somewhere nearby I heard a neighbor’s house singing ‘Shchedryk’. From the window he could see the family gathered around: the children were singing happily, the elders were clapping their hands, and even the grandfather was singing along. Their laughter was as loud as Christmas bells, and for a moment it seemed as if the whole house was aglow with light. But instead of joy, a wave of envy rose in Vasyl’s heart.

“Why are they so happy, and I am not?” the boy thought with a sigh. At that moment, a gray cat ran up to him and rubbed his knee. Vasyl looked at the cat and his fingers involuntarily slipped over the flute. “Maybe the song will make me happier, too,’ he thought giving the cat a piece of his sandwich.

The boy stood up, straightened his old scarf and, holding his flute tighter, walked towards the small marketplace that was the heart of the village. He stopped by a Christmas tree decorated with garlands and gold stars, took a deep breath and began to play. At first the melody sounded uncertain, as if it were ashamed to tell its story, but gradually ‘Shchedryk’ was filled with warmth, just like Vasyl’s heart.

People hurrying home with their parcels began to stop. A little girl in a red coat was the first to dance, holding her brother’s hand. Someone started humming the words softly, and then others joined in. Even Grandpa Petro, known for his stern demeanour, tipped his hat and said: “You play well, boy.”

Soon a crowd gathered around Vasyl. Each brought a little warmth — some tea, some a piece of cake, and some just a friendly smile. The frost no longer seemed so severe. Vasyl could feel the simple motif of ‘Shchedryk’ reawakening his long-forgotten joy.

Then he heard a familiar voice behind him. Vasyl turned to see his father, dressed in a military uniform, with a slightly tired but happy face. You know, son,’ he said, embracing Vasyl, ‘Shchedryk is a song that works wonders. You shared your happiness, and now it has returned to you.

The boy’s eyes filled with tears, but they were tears of joy. That evening, Shchedryk warmed the whole village and gave Vasyl the most precious thing — his father and the warmth of his large Ukrainian family.