In a small village where everyone knew each other, rumors spread that made people freeze. The old teacher brought an 11‑year‑old girl home every day, and everyone in the village guessed for what reason.
Everyone knew Mary. The quiet, slender girl with sad eyes always hurried home after classes, as if afraid that someone might ask too many questions. Her mother had died, and her father… he was rarely seen sober.
Nicholas, the elderly literature teacher, had noticed her. Every morning she appeared at school in an old coat with a torn backpack. She never asked for help, yet her eyes revealed what words could not express.
One day, after class, he stopped her.
“Mary, you’re always in such a hurry… Come, let’s have some tea together.”
She lowered her head.
“Thank you, but there are so many things to do at home…”
He knew what “things” awaited her there—an empty refrigerator, a father who could be both silent and unbearable. And then he said:
“You can always come to my place. My tea is always hot.”
From that day on, Mary visited him every day. She ate warm cabbage soup, warmed her hands by the stove, and listened to his stories about literature. She learned. She smiled.
But the village did not remain silent for long. Several women gathered near the teacher’s house. Someone peered through the window, and then—they were astonished.
On the table lay a plate of hot cabbage soup. Beside it was a book, and at the table sat Mary, intently listening to the teacher. There were no secrets—just a child who had finally found comfort.
The next morning, a package of food appeared near the old teacher’s house. No one knew who had left it. But from that day on, it began to appear every week.
Years passed. Mary finished school and went to the city, yet she continued to write him letters. And one day, she returned.
When he saw her on the doorstep, he was silent for a long time. Before him stood an adult woman holding a diploma in philology.
“I’m a teacher, just like you,” she said.
Nicholas could not find any words. He simply squeezed her hand. From that day on, she visited him every day. And one day, she brought some documents.
“I want you to be my grandfather,” she whispered gently.
He covered his face with his hands. For many years he hadn’t shed tears, but in that moment he could no longer hold them back.
Time passed. The village no longer recognized Mary—now she was the children’s favorite teacher. And the house where she had once found warmth now belonged to her. She lived there and cared for the one who had once saved her.
One day, arriving as usual in his room, she asked:
“Grandfather, would you like tea with jam or with honey?”
There was no response. He simply sat, gazing out the window.
When the village bid farewell to the teacher, no one spoke a word more than necessary. They simply stood silently with bowed heads.
After the funeral, Mary remained alone by his grave.
“Thank you…” she whispered gently. “For everything.”
She didn’t break into tears until a little student approached her.
“I wrote it myself,” he said, offering her a sheet of paper.
In childish handwriting it read:
“Teachers do not die. They live in their students.”
Mary smiled. She knew that Nicholas would have agreed.
