Vanya woke earlier than usual, shivering slightly as the chilly November air slipped through a gap in the window. He tugged the frayed blanket up to his chin, closing his eyes briefly, but sleep was gone for good.
Outside, the village was quiet, the deserted streets cloaked in a gray fog. Trees stood bare, their last autumn leaves scattered across the frozen ground. Vanya sighed and sat up slowly.
“Time to get moving,” he murmured softly.
He shuffled into the kitchen, noticing how cold it had become overnight—the stove’s coals had long burned out. Vanya quietly approached his mother’s room, gently peering inside. His mother lay beneath a thick woolen blanket, breathing heavily, her forehead damp with sweat.
“Mom,” he whispered softly, “how are you feeling today?”
She stirred slightly, opening weary eyes, offering him a faint smile.
“I’m alright, dear. Don’t worry about me.”
Vanya knew better. He sat beside her, holding her hand gently.
“You rest today, Mom. I’ll handle everything.”
She squeezed his hand lightly, her voice barely audible:
“You’re the man of the house now. Take good care of your sister.”
“I will,” Vanya promised firmly.
Quietly, he glanced into the next room, where Ksyusha, his six-year-old sister, slept peacefully, tightly hugging her worn teddy bear. He smiled softly to himself:
“Let her sleep a little longer.”
Pulling on an old jacket that hardly fit anymore, Vanya stepped outside into the frosty air. Though snow had not yet arrived, the ground crackled underfoot with icy patches, his breath forming small clouds before him.
“I have to gather some firewood,” he decided, grabbing the axe.
The familiar forest lay quiet, the tall pines whispering faintly in the occasional breeze. Vanya selected dry branches, chopping methodically despite the biting cold numbing his fingers.
“Enough to last a few days,” he thought, bundling up the wood and hauling it onto his shoulder.
Returning home, he paused briefly, observing the peaceful yet somber village around him. Thin streams of smoke rose lazily from chimneys, signaling families waking up.
His modest wooden house, leaning slightly with age, stood at the end of the street—a small haven, dearer than anything else. Taking a deep breath, he reaffirmed silently:
“We’ll be alright.”
He pushed open the gate, suddenly feeling a weight on his shoulders far heavier than the wood.
Vanya had completely forgotten today was his birthday.
Early the next morning, he repeated his chores, unaware of the special day. After returning with more firewood, Ksyusha greeted him excitedly, struggling to ignite the stove.
“Vanya! Do you remember what today is?” she asked, hopeful.
“I do,” he responded quietly, stacking logs carefully.
“Aren’t you happy?”
“Yes,” Vanya replied softly, his smile tinged with sadness. “Just so much to do.”
She watched him closely, then hesitantly suggested, “Maybe we could bake a cake?”
He shook his head gently:
“We have no sugar left, and only a little flour.”
She sighed, returning silently to the stove.
As he checked around the yard, anxiety lingered. Approaching the gate, however, Vanya noticed something unusual—a large wicker basket on the frozen ground, filled with food: potatoes, flour, sugar, even a beautiful cake decorated with cream roses.
Vanya stared in disbelief, wondering who could have brought it. His question was answered as neighbor Baba Lyuda waved from across the fence.
“Happy birthday, Vanechka!”
He approached her, speechless with surprise.
“Was this you?”
“The whole village pitched in,” Baba Lyuda smiled warmly. “We know it’s been tough lately. You deserve a proper birthday.”
Vanya blinked back tears, his voice trembling:
“Thank you—I didn’t expect anyone to remember.”
“Good deeds come back, dear,” she replied gently.
Inside, excitement filled the small kitchen as Vanya opened the basket. Ksyusha squealed with delight seeing the cake.
“Can we taste it now?” she asked eagerly.
“Absolutely,” Vanya laughed softly, feeling warmth spreading through him.
Their mother, stirred by the cheerful voices, entered weakly, wrapping herself in a shawl.
“What’s happening?”
“Mom! Look at this gift!”
Tears filled her eyes as she saw the basket:
“Who did this?”
“All our neighbors,” Vanya explained. “They want us to know we’re not alone.”
She sat quietly, overcome with gratitude:
“Thank you both,” she whispered emotionally. “You’re the best children anyone could have.”
Vanya grasped her hand gently:
“We’ll get through this, Mom.”
She nodded confidently:
“I have no doubt.”
They ate together, savoring the sweet taste of kindness. Vanya felt newfound strength, believing things could truly improve.
Days later, Vanya met Baba Lyuda at the village well, carrying a heavy bucket.
“Thank you again,” he said sincerely.
“We’ll always look after each other here,” she smiled gently. “Remember, kindness always returns.”
Inspired, Vanya began helping others—bringing water, chopping firewood, caring for younger children, always humble when praised.
One evening, Ksyusha approached, curious:
“Vanya, why do you always help others?”
He considered her question thoughtfully:
“Because that’s how it should be—we have to care for one another.”
She nodded solemnly:
“Then I’ll help too.”
“Exactly,” he smiled softly, patting her head. “Kindness is never forgotten.”
Those words remained with him, comforting his heart each time he returned home, reminding him that even the smallest good deeds could bring warmth in the coldest of times.