Mikhail Andreevich stood frozen, disbelief gripping him as he spotted a small figure beneath the old birch tree.
Curled up on a bed of fallen leaves, a frail boy of about four shivered in a too-thin jacket, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His wide, frightened eyes locked onto the forest ranger.
Mikhail scanned the quiet woods, the only sounds the rustling pine branches and the occasional crack of twigs. No one else was around.
He crouched down carefully, trying to seem less intimidating.
“What’s your name, little one? Where are your parents?” he asked gently.
The boy pressed his back to the rough bark, his lips trembling. Instead of words, a faint wheeze escaped him.
“S-S… Se…nya,” he whispered at last.
“Senya?” Mikhail extended a hand, but the child recoiled. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”
Twilight was thickening over the forest, and the cold was biting deeper. The boy’s body shook from the chill. Who could have abandoned him here? The nearest village was thirty kilometers away, with an even longer road beyond.
“Come with me,” the ranger said softly. “It’s warm at my place, and there’s food.”
At the mention of food, a flicker of interest lit the boy’s eyes.
Mikhail removed his own thick jacket and carefully draped it over Senya’s skinny shoulders. The boy didn’t resist.
“There we go,” Mikhail murmured, lifting Senya into his arms.
Light as a feather, his bones visible beneath fragile skin. Clearly, he hadn’t eaten in days.
They walked through the trees until a small cabin appeared—a crooked porch and smoke curling from the chimney.
“Here we are,” Mikhail said, nudging the door open with his foot.
The cabin smelled of dried herbs and smoke. The fire in the stove was dying down, casting a reddish glow across the rough-hewn table and benches.
Mikhail settled the boy on a bench and fed the fire with fresh logs. Flames leapt, lighting up Senya’s frightened face.
“You’ll warm up now,” Mikhail said, removing a pot from the stove. “Then we’ll talk.”
Senya ate ravenously, coughing between bites. Watching him stirred something long dormant inside Mikhail. How many years had passed since a child last lived in his home? Ten? Fifteen? Since then…
No. Not now.
“Where are you from, Senya?” Mikhail asked when the bowl was empty.
The boy shook his head.
“Mom… dad… where?”
Tears glistened as he shook his head again.
“I… don’t know,” he whispered.
Mikhail sighed deeply. Tomorrow, he would need to visit the village and inform Ivan Egorovich. A child couldn’t just appear out of nowhere; someone was surely searching for him.
“You’ll stay here tonight,” Mikhail said. “Tomorrow we’ll figure things out.”
He laid an old but clean blanket over Senya on the wide bench by the stove. The boy curled into a corner, eyes wary of the unfamiliar surroundings.
In the middle of the night, Mikhail woke to soft sobbing. Senya sat on the bench, knees hugged tight, crying silently.
“Hey,” Mikhail called softly. “Come here.”
He patted the bed beside him. Senya froze, torn between trust and fear.
“Come on,” Mikhail coaxed gently. “Don’t be scared.”
The boy hesitantly climbed down and shuffled over. Mikhail pulled him close and settled him on the bed.
“Sleep now,” Mikhail said. “Nothing will hurt you here.”
Morning came, and Mikhail prepared to head to the village. He hesitated, glancing at the sleeping boy. Should he bring him along? Leave him? What if Senya woke alone and frightened?
Finally, he decided to wake the boy. Senya stirred immediately, as if he hadn’t slept.
“We’re going to the village,” Mikhail said. “We need to find out who’s missing you.”
Senya gripped his hand tightly.
“No!” His voice was clear for the first time. “Don’t!”
“Why?” Mikhail crouched before him. “Your parents must be worried.”
The boy shook his head, eyes filled with fear.
“No mom,” he whispered. “No dad.”
Mikhail’s heart ached. He recognized that hopeless look—the loss of everything.
Years ago, he had seen the same reflection when he bid farewell to his wife and son.
“All right,” he said after a pause. “We’ll stay here today. But tomorrow we still have to go. Understand?”
Senya nodded, never letting go of his hand.
Three weeks passed. Mikhail did visit the village.
Ivan Egorovich, the village head, shrugged—no one nearby had lost a child. Notices yielded no leads. The police took a report but showed little enthusiasm.
“Maybe he was abandoned,” the officer speculated. “Or city folks passing through left him. But no missing child reports from the city either.”
Mikhail was at a loss, but Senya stayed with him. Slowly, cautiously, the boy began to adjust to his new life—as wild and wary as a small forest creature.
“One day, we need to chop firewood,” Mikhail said one morning. “Will you help?”
Senya straightened and nodded seriously. Mikhail smiled despite himself.
His little hands weren’t ready for hard labor, but what mattered was that Senya felt needed.
“You collect kindling,” Mikhail instructed, handing him a basket. “I’ll handle the axe.”
They worked side by side. Mikhail glanced over as Senya carefully gathered twigs and placed them in the basket. The boy frowned when he struggled and bit his lip in concentration.
“Will I learn?” Senya suddenly asked, pointing at the axe.
“Chopping wood?” Mikhail shook his head. “Not yet. When you’re bigger…”
“I’m already big!” Senya protested.
Mikhail crouched and met his gaze.
“You are,” he agreed. “But the axe is heavy. How about this—you learn to clean fish first, then we’ll get to the axe. Deal?”
Senya nodded slowly.
Evenings were spent by the fire. Mikhail mended nets or carved wooden figures, while Senya watched wide-eyed.
Sometimes Mikhail told stories—of wolves howling at the moon, clever foxes, and hungry bears waking from winter.
“Will they come to us?” Senya asked one day.
“Who?”
“The bears.”
Mikhail tousled his hair.
“No, they won’t. And if they do, I won’t let them hurt you.”
The words slipped out, and warmth blossomed in his chest. He truly would protect this boy. He would be there.
One early morning, a cracking sound awoke Mikhail. He sat bolt upright. Senya lay curled peacefully nearby.
The noise came again—someone was trying to break into the shed where supplies were kept. Mikhail grabbed his rifle and slipped silently outside.
In the gray dawn, he saw a huge shadow. A bear. Young but large. The animal had broken the shed door and was trying to get inside.
“Go away!” Mikhail shouted, firing a warning shot into the air.
The bear turned, sniffed, then reared up on its hind legs and growled. It was clearly unafraid—just hungry. Such a beast was hard to scare away.
“Leave,” Mikhail repeated, aiming low. “Don’t make me…”
The bear dropped to all fours and charged toward him. Mikhail fired again, shooting near its feet.
The bear paused, then lunged, furious.
Senya ran out of the cabin.
“Senya, back!” Mikhail yelled, reloading.
The boy froze, pale with fear. But instead of fleeing, he shouted and waved his arms. The bear stopped, confused.
Mikhail seized the moment, aimed, and fired. The shot echoed like thunder. The bear roared and disappeared into the forest, leaving tracks behind.
“I told you to stay inside!” Mikhail rushed to the boy. “It could have attacked you!”
Senya sniffled but looked up.
“You said you wouldn’t let anyone hurt me,” he whispered. “And I didn’t want him to hurt you either.”
Warmth flooded Mikhail’s chest, healing old wounds. He knelt and hugged the boy tightly.
“You’re very brave, Senya. Very brave.”
They stayed like that until the sun rose over the treetops. Then they set about fixing the shed. Mikhail taught Senya how to hammer nails while the boy watched carefully.
“In the evening, we’ll file the paperwork,” Mikhail said. “So you can stay with me legally. Everything will be proper.”
“Forever?” Senya’s eyes shone in the dim light.
“Forever,” Mikhail answered. And the word no longer scared him.
Spring arrived suddenly. Within a week, snow melted, turning forest trails into rushing streams. Mikhail and Senya made weekend trips to the village to gather all the necessary documents.
“Adoption is serious business,” Ivan Egorovich said, helping with paperwork. “But we’ll manage.”
Years passed, and the boy grew. The process took time, but Senya grew less afraid of the villagers. He even started answering questions when people chatted on the benches.
“School next year,” remarked Marina Pavlovna, the local teacher. “He’s a very sharp boy.”
Mikhail nodded. Thoughts of school lingered, but he pushed them aside. School meant moving closer to people, leaving the forest’s peace behind. But for his son… for the boy… he was ready.
“What do you think about building a new house?” he asked Senya while riding their old motorcycle with a sidecar back into the woods.
“A new one?” the boy asked. “Why?”
“So it’s easier for you to get to school. You won’t have to travel so far.”
Senya was quiet, then tightened his grip around Mikhail’s waist.
“What about the forest?” he finally asked. “Will we still come here?”
Mikhail smiled. The boy loved the woods as much as he did.
“Always. But for now…” he paused. “…I’ll show you how to build a house.”
And so they began. Mikhail sold the old motorcycle sidecar and bought a used Niva—a more practical vehicle for hauling materials. They found a plot on the village’s edge, surrounded by pines and birches, just like the forest.
Senya helped: passing nails, holding boards, gathering shavings. They worked all summer. Mikhail taught him to use a plane and saw. Senya’s hands grew stronger; calluses formed that he proudly showed off.
It wasn’t a solo effort. At one point, Mikhail hired a crew, spending all his savings.
“Just like yours,” the boy said, comparing their hands.
By summer’s end, the house was nearly finished—small, sturdy, built from fresh wood. It smelled of forest and new beginnings.
That August brought official guardianship papers. Mikhail stared at the stamped documents in disbelief. Now it was real. Senya was legally and truly his son.
“What should we do now?” Mikhail asked the boy. “Celebrate?”
Senya blinked.
“How?”
Mikhail thought.
“Maybe go fishing? Then I’ll teach you to make real forest fish soup.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. He nodded eagerly, nearly losing his balance.
They spent the day at the lake. Mikhail showed him how to cast a line and reel in a fish when the bobber twitched.
Senya caught his first perch—small but strong. He cleaned it himself with a dull knife Mikhail had sharpened just for safety.
“Am I a real fisherman?” Senya asked.
“You are,” Mikhail said. “Soon you’ll be better than me.”
They cooked fish soup over the fire—potatoes, onions, and herbs Mikhail gathered in the forest.
The flames danced on their faces, making them seem alike: one tall with gray beard, the other small with freckles. But their eyes were equally bright, steady, and attentive.
“School starts in a week,” Mikhail said, stirring the soup. “Are you nervous?”
Senya shrugged uncertainly.
“A little. What if the other kids laugh?”
“Laugh at what?” Mikhail asked, surprised.
“Well… that I never went to school before. That I’m different.”
Mikhail set down the spoon and pulled Senya close.
“Listen carefully,” he said softly. “Yes, you’re different. But you’re better. You’ve met bears in the forest. You can light a fire with a single match. You know what earth smells like after rain.”
“And you’re starting first grade. They’ve never been to school either—just like you.”
Senya looked up.
“Really?”
“Really,” Mikhail ruffled his blond hair. “And here’s another truth: I’ll always be here. Always.”
The first of September dawned bright and clear. Senya, dressed in a new shirt with a backpack on his shoulders, stood by the gate. Mikhail fixed his collar.
“Ready?” he asked.
The boy nodded silently. Together, they walked down the village street to the small white schoolhouse with a flag above the door. Children gathered with bouquets, parents took pictures.
At the door, Senya slowed.
“Dad,” he said—the first time he called him that—and Mikhail held his breath, not wanting to break the moment. “Will you wait for me?”
“Of course,” Mikhail answered, voice thick. “Right here. Go on.”
Senya took a deep breath and stepped inside, glancing back once, twice. Mikhail stood still—tall, gray-bearded, eyes warm enough to squeeze the heart.
The bell rang. Senya disappeared inside, blending with the other children.
Mikhail remained outside, the gentle breeze stirring his hair. He kept watching the white door and smiled.
His son had gone to school. And everything was as it should be.
The circle had closed. Loneliness gave way to warmth—a new life filled with meaning, love, and hope for the future.