The Secret of the Old Postcard Three days before a yellowed envelope arrived to change her life, Natalie Sokolov stood on the balcony of her London flat. The night was dense and dark, with no stars to be seen. The lights of Regent Street glimmered below. Inside, beyond the glass doors, Mark was on speakerphone, negotiating the finer points of yet another deal. Natalie pressed her palm against the cold glass. She was exhausted—not by work (she had always excelled at that), but by the very air around her. The predictability suffocated her, as if even Mark’s proposal had been scheduled into a five-year plan. An ache of longing—or perhaps mute rage—clung to her throat. Pulling out her phone, Natalie opened the messenger and typed to an old mate she hadn’t seen in ages. Her friend had just had her second baby, submerged in the happy chaos of family life. The message was little more than a sigh: “You know, I sometimes think I’ve forgotten what real rain smells like. Not this city drizzle, but the kind that hits the earth—smelling of dust and hope. I want a small miracle. Something simple, something you can hold in your hands.” She never sent it—deleted the words in a heartbeat. Her friend wouldn’t have understood, would’ve thought she was having a crisis, or had too much wine. A minute later, she was back with Mark, who wrapped up his call and glanced at her. “Everything alright? You look tired.” “Fine,” Natalie said with a smile. “Just needed some fresh air.” “In December?” He grinned. “Go to Brighton in May, if we hit our targets this quarter.” He turned back to his screen. Natalie’s phone flashed—a client confirming a meeting. No miracles. She sighed and mentally ran through tomorrow’s to-do list as she readied for bed. * Three days later, sorting the post, her finger caught on the corner of an envelope she didn’t recognise. It fell to the floor: thick, rough parchment, yellowed with age, bearing no stamp—just an old ink stamp of a holly branch and her address. Inside, a New Year’s card. Not glossy shopbought, but warm, embossed cardboard, sparkling with gold dust that scattered on her hands. “May the new year bring your boldest dreams to life…” read the handwriting that made Natalie’s heart skip. She recognised the script. It was Alex’s—her childhood sweetheart from a sleepy Cotswolds village. Summers at her Gran’s cottage, first love, riverside dens, fireworks in August, and notes exchanged from school to school. But Gran had sold the house, they’d grown up and lost touch, each swept to different corners of the UK. Her own address, yet dated 1999. A Royal Mail hiccup? An answer from the universe to her silent plea for a simple, tangible miracle? In a flash, Natalie cancelled her meetings—told Mark she needed to scope a location for a client—got in her car. To the Cotswolds, three hours away, to find the sender. Google suggested there was a small letterpress workshop in the village. * She expected a souvenir shop—cluttered, bright, thick with candle smell. Instead, she stepped into quiet: air sweet and heavy with wood, ink, and something bitter, maybe old varnish. A real stove puffed warmth into the room. The owner stood at a workbench, tinkering with a hulking, antique press. His back to her, sleeves rolled, solid, calm. “Is this your card?” Natalie laid it on the counter. He took a moment, wiping his hands on his trousers before lifting the card to the light as though it were a rare coin. “Yes,” he said, voice steady. “That’s our holly stamp. 1999. Where did you find it?” “It arrived yesterday, in London. Must be a postal error. I need to find the sender. I know the handwriting.” He looked at her—polished haircut, designer but out-of-place camel coat, tiredness she couldn’t quite hide. No curiosity, just patient waiting. “Why does it matter? It’s a generation gone. People get born, die, forget.” “I’m not dead,” Natalie snapped, surprised at her own fierceness. “And I haven’t forgotten.” Watching her quietly, the man gestured toward a kettle in the corner. “You’re frozen. Tea might thaw you out. Even for Londoners.” He poured them mugs with chipped handles, no further questions. * Three days in the old village felt like stepping out of time—out of the rush of London, into the hush where even snow falling from the eaves made itself heard. From screens to glowing embers, from bustle to the light of memory. The man, Alex (the printmaker, not her childhood Alex), didn’t press for stories. He simply shared his world. He lived alone in the family home, creaking floors, the sweet scent of jam, and timeworn books. He showed her engraved copper plates, explained how they mixed glitter, how his father had once mailed a card of love that never arrived. “Love sent into emptiness,” he said, eyes on the fire. “Beautiful. Hopeless.” “Do you believe in hopeless love?” Natalie asked. “My dad found her eventually. They lived together for years. If it’s real, anything’s possible. As for the rest—I only believe in what I can hold. This press. This house. My craft. The rest is smoke.” No bitterness—just a craftsman accepting the grain of his material. Natalie, always used to fighting her surroundings, found the stillness here impossible to resist. The snow fell when it wanted. The printmaker’s dog napped where it pleased. A strange closeness bloomed: two lonely souls seeing each other clearly. He didn’t see her as a high-flying city girl, she didn’t see him as stuck in the past, but as a keeper—of time, of tradition, of silence. Her anxiety, constant in the city, faded in his presence. The day Mark called, Natalie stood by the window watching the printmaker, Alex, chopping wood in the snowy yard—each log splitting with crisp, satisfying regularity. “Where are you?” Mark’s voice was cold as ever. “Pick up a real tree on your way back—the fake one broke. Fitting, isn’t it?” Natalie looked at the real tree sparkling in the living room. The old glass ornaments. “Yes,” she whispered. “Very fitting.” And hung up. * The truth surfaced on New Year’s Eve. Alex found an old sketch in his father’s album—the original wording from the mystery card. “It wasn’t your Alex,” he said quietly. “It was my dad. To my mum. The card never arrived. History loves going in circles.” The magic scattered like glitter: no mystical connection, just fate’s twist. Her go-back-in-time fantasy was a beautiful misreading. “I should go,” Natalie murmured. “I’ve got… everything. Wedding. Contracts.” Alex nodded. He didn’t try to hold her back—only stood amid his universe of paper and memory. A man who preserved warmth inside envelopes, powerless against the cold of another world. “I understand,” he said. “I’m not a magician. Just a printmaker. I make things you can hold, not castles in the air. But sometimes… the past doesn’t send us a ghost, but a mirror. So we see who we might have been.” He turned back to his press. Natalie clutched her bag, keys, her phone—her only link to the city, to cover calls, KPIs, and a comfortable, quiet marriage to a man who measured everything in money. She’d reached the door when her eye landed on another card, fresh from the press. The same holly stamp, but a new message: “May you find courage.” Natalie understood. The miracle wasn’t in the card from the past. The miracle was in this moment. In the power to choose. To see the path. She couldn’t stay in his world—but she wasn’t going back to Mark’s. She walked out into the cold, starry English night, never looking back. *** A year passed. December in London again. Natalie never returned to the events industry. She left Mark, launched a boutique agency focused on “thoughtful” events—warm, intimate, attentive to detail. She uses paper invites, printed in a small workshop in the Cotswolds. Her life is still fast but now purposeful. She’s learning the art of silence. The “Snowflake” workshop hosts creative weekends. Alex finally accepts online orders, carefully chosen. His cards are more popular, but the craft is unchanged. They don’t write often, only for work. But last week, Natalie received a card in the post. This time, stamped with a flying bird, it read simply, “Thank you for your courage.”

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 11 minViews 3

The Mystery of the Old Postcard

Three days before the yellowed envelope appeared in her life, Alice Whitmore stood on the narrow balcony of her London flat. The night felt thick and starless, like velvet painted black. Below, the citys arteries pulsed with the headlights and neon of Oxford Street. Inside, behind the glass door, Patrick discussed the terms of a contract on speakerphone, his voice tumbling out like marbles across the rug.

Alice pressed her palm to the cold glass.

She was bone-tirednot because of the work, she excelled at thatbut from the heaviness of the very air shed been breathing these last few years. London moved in predictable clockwork, right down to Patricks proposal, which had landed with the punctuality of an annual tax letter. Some kind of silent ache, or perhaps voiceless rage, had lodged in her throat. She took her phone, opened WhatsApp, and started a message to her oldest frienda friend she hadnt seen in ages, and who now lived in the tumult of young childrens shrieks and sticky-fingered chaos.

Her message was brief, like a leaf torn off in a gust: Sometimes I think Ive forgotten what real rain smells like. Not this city drizzle, but the rain that hits earthsmells like dust and hope. I want a miracle. A small one. Paper, ideally. Something to hold.

She wasnt expecting an answer; it was more like tossing a bottle into the digital ocean, a faint ritual for self-comfort. Afterwards, she deleted the unsent noteher friend would have misunderstood, worried she was losing it, drinking too much, or both. A minute later, Alice wandered back to the sitting room. Patrick was putting down his phone.

All right? he asked, tossing her a glance. Look worn out.

Just needed a breath of air. Craving something you know, fresh, Alice replied, forcing a smile.

In January? Patrick grinned. Youll get fresh air by the sea, maybe in May, if this quarter goes well.

He went back to his tablet. Alice checked her phonea client confirmed a meeting, nothing else. No miracles there. Sighing, she went off to get ready for bed, mind already drafting tomorrows to-do list.

—

Three days later, while sorting through the post, her finger caught the browned edge of an odd envelope, which fell to the herringbone floor. It was thick, sandpaperya faded sandalwood colour, marked only by a stamped pine sprig and her address in black ink. Inside was a Christmas card, not something glossy from the shelves at Waterstones, but warm, embossed, dusted with golden glitter that clung to her fingers.

May the boldest dreams come true this New Year the message read, the handwriting jarring something beneath Alices ribs.

She knew that script. It was Jamies. The boy from Willowby-on-the-Moor, with whom shed promised everlasting love as a child. Every summer, school let her loose in her grandmothers villagea world of drowsy gardens and firefly-lit evenings. There, Jamie had been the first spark, the one for whom shed built river-dens, launched sparklers in August, and written letters between holidays. Then, her grandmother sold the cottage, school took them to different cities, and theyd lost one another.

The cards address matched her current London one, but the postmark was from 1999. Impossible. A blip in the Royal Mail? A message from the universe, answering her old, silent wish for a tangible miracle?

Soon enough, Alice cancelled her client meeting and two Zoom calls, told Patrick she was checking a venue for work (he hardly looked up from his iPad), then slid into her car.

Three hours drive to Willowby; she had to find the sender. Google confirmed there was a tiny letterpress studio in town.

—

The Snowdrop Workshop was nothing like shed pictured. Alice had imagined a kitschy, crowdbusy gift shop smelling of cheap candles. Instead, she entered a thick hush. The air, heavy and sweet like ripe pears, mingled wood shavings, cold iron, and something old and sharppossibly dried paint. And, unmistakably, the whiff of a wood burner. Flickers of heat caught at Alices cheeks.

The owner stood with his back hunched to a workbench, hands deep inside the belly of a hulking ancient press that looked extinct. The tinkle of tools was the only sound. He didnt answer the bell; Alice gave a soft cough.

He straightened, creaking upward as though testing every bone. Turned around: a short, stout fellow in rolled-up plaid, ordinary but with quietly steady eyes. They didnt hold curiosity or invitation, but simply waited.

Is this card yours? Alice set the humble Christmas card on the counter.

He ambled over, not hurrying, wiped his hands on his trousersleaving faint blue streaksthen held the card up to the light as if it were a rare coin.

Ours, yes. Pine stamp. Thats 99, right enough. Where did you get it?

It came to me in London. Mustve been a sorting error, Alice replied briskly, though her insides fluttered. Im trying to find who sent it. The handwriting I recognise it.

He stared at her, more closely this time, gaze flicking over her crisp haircut and tailored stone-coloured wool coatout of place here, and not hiding the fatigue behind perfect makeup.

Why do you want the sender? he asked at last. A quarter centurys passed. People are born, dieforget.

I havent died, she shot back suddenly, surprised by her own sharpness. And I havent forgotten.

He seemed to read something behind her words. He jerked his head toward a kettle simmering by the stove.

Youre freezing. Teall help. And thaw your minda Londoners mind needs it.

He didnt wait for an answer; soon enough, he was pouring hot water into chipped mugs.

So it began.

—

Three days in Willowby-on-the-Moor became a homecoming for Alice. From Londons roar to the hush where you could hear snow slip off a roof. From blue screens to firelit warmth. The letterpress manEdwardnever pried, just welcomed her in. He lived alone in his parents old house where the floorboards grumbled tenderly. The air was fragrant with woodsmoke, jam, and yellowing pages.

He showed her his fathers copper plates, etched with stags and snowflakes, explained how they blended glitter that didnt fall off. He was, in a way, like his home: sturdy, a little timeworn, full of quiet treasures. He spoke about his father, who had fallen in love at first sight, sent a card to his mothers old address, and never reached her.

Love into the void, he mused, watching the flames. Beautiful, but hopeless.

Do you believe in hopelessness? Alice asked him, her voice soft.

He found her in the end. They had years together. Soif theres love, theres always a way. But I believe in what I can touch: this press, this house, my work. The rest? Smoke, mostly.

There was no bitterness in Edwards tonejust acceptance, the calm of a craftsman beneath his material. Alice, a breaker and shaper of her world, found no purchase here. The snow fell when it pleased. And Chester, Edwards spaniel, slept wherever he fancied.

Some uncanny bond grew between Alice and Edwarda fragile link of two loners finding their missing piece: he in her lively courage, she in his gentle authenticity. He never saw her as a successful London socialite, but the same girl, fearful of the dark, aching for a simple wonder. She saw him not as a man mired in nostalgia, but a guardian of time and silence. His presence quieted her nerve-ending anxiety, like the hush after a storm at sea.

When Patrick rang, Alice was by the window, watching Edward rhythmically split wood in the yard.

Whereve you got to? came his flat voice. Pick up a tree on your way home. Ours is bust. Rather symbolic, isnt it?

Alice looked out at the real fir, glowing with vintage glass baubles.

Yes, she whispered. Very symbolic.

She ended the call.

—

The truth emerged on December 31st. Edward, unspeaking, pressed an old sketchbook toward her. The draft of the very card.

I found it, he said, his voice uncharacteristically low. It wasnt your Jamie. It was my father. A card to my mother, never delivered. History goes in circles, seems.

The magic fell away like powdery snow. No mystical bond, just the universes cruel irony. Alices flight to the past was a beautiful mirage.

I have to go, she murmured, eyes lowered. My lifesall back there. The wedding, contracts

Edward nodded. He didnt ask her to stay, just stood amidst his world of handmade paper and memoriesa man who could warm letters, but was powerless against the chill from beyond.

I get it, he said quietly. Not a wizardjust a printer. I make things you can hold, not castles in the air. But sometimes the past doesnt send a ghost, just a mirror. To show us what we mightve been.

He turned back to his press, letting her go.

Alice picked up her bag, her keys. She found the smooth rectangle of her phoneher only lifeline to the world on the other side of this snow. To switchboard meetings, KPIs, and her almost-silent marriage, measured in pounds sterling.

She had her hand on the doorknob when her eyes fell on the old card, still on the counter. And beside it, a fresh one Edward had been making but never gave her. It bore the same pine stamp, but a new phrase: For courage enough.

She understood. The real miracle was not the old card. It was this secondher choiceto stand in a burst of clarity between two paths. She could never take his world, he could not enter hers. Returning to Patrick was unthinkable.

Alice stepped into the crisp, star-strewn night. She did not look back.

—

A year later, December returned.

Alice never went back to events management. She parted ways with Patrick, and started her own agencyone for mindful occasions: intimate, soulful, crafted. Invitations were real paperprinted at one workshop in Willowby. Life didnt slow, but it gained weight and meaning. She learned the value of quiet.

Now the Snowdrop Workshop runs creative retreats. Edward accepted her help in learning to take online orders, but he picks which ones to keep. His cards are better known now, provide steady income, but the process stays unchanged.

They dont talk daily, only for work. The other day, Alice received a card by post: a flying bird stamped in blue.

It shared just two words: Thank you.She pinned the card to her kitchen noticeboarda bright bird in flight, wings spread over a collage of calendars and scribbled dreams. For the first time in years, Alice found herself at the window before dawn, watching frost lace the world silver, the promise of another quiet day catching on the rooftops.

Chesters pawprints still dotted the garden when she visited Willowby for the winter fair. Edward handed her a mug of spiced cider as neighbors crowded the little shop, warming their hands and spirits. He leaned close and tipped his head, a gesture half-smile, half-invitation.

If you ever want help running a printing course in London, he murmured, I could risk it for the adventure.

Alice laughed, surprised by a joy so sudden, it trembled inside her like hope. Well hold it when it rainsthe real kind. Paper and courage enough for everyone.

For a long heartbeat, the scent of pine and ink and old dreams wrapped around them. And in that tiny, bustling corner of the world, Alice realized that miracles didnt always arrive as answers to lost wishes or echoes from the past. Sometimes, they grew quietly in new beginningsor soared, weightless as a bird, in the steady hands of the present.

Love Isn’t for Show Annie stepped out of the cottage with a full bucket of pig feed, her face stormy as she passed her husband, Henry, who had been fiddling with the old well for three days running. He’d decided he wanted it carved and fancy—beautiful, as though he had nothing better to do! She bustled about looking after house and livestock while he stood with a chisel in hand, covered in shavings, grinning at her. What kind of husband had God sent her? He never uttered a tender word, never slammed his fist on the table, just quietly worked away. On rare occasions, he’d simply glance at her and gently run his hand along her thick, honey-blonde braid—his sole display of affection. Oh, how Annie longed for more: for pet names and sweet nothings… Lost in thoughts of her lonely woman’s lot, Annie nearly tripped over old Buster, the family dog. Instantly, Henry darted over, caught his wife, and shot the dog a stern look: “Watch where you’re going, Buster—you’ll end up tripping the missus.” Buster lowered his eyes, tail tucked, and shuffled off to his kennel. Annie was amazed, not for the first time, at how animals seemed to understand her husband. She’d asked Henry once about it, and he’d just replied, “I love animals, and they love me right back.” Annie, too, dreamed of love—love that swept her off her feet, with whispered words at night and flowers on her pillow each morning. But Henry was always so reserved, barely affectionate… Sometimes she even doubted whether he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” came a cheery voice over the fence—it was Victor, their neighbour. “Still fussing with your well, Henry? Who needs all those carvings anyway?” “I want our children to grow up with an eye for beauty,” Henry replied. “Well, you’ll need to have some first!” Victor winked at Annie. Henry’s eyes grew sad; Annie hurried inside, embarrassed. She wasn’t in a rush to have kids—after all, she was still young, beautiful, and maybe wanted to live for herself a little longer. Besides, her own husband was hardly the dashing type. And Victor—tall, broad-shouldered—now, he could make your heart flutter! He’d greet her near the gate, voice gentle as summer rain: “My little dove, my darling sun…” Annie’s knees would turn to jelly, but she’d always run from him. When she married Henry, she’d vowed to be faithful; her parents, together for decades, had taught her to cherish her marriage. Yet why did she yearn to catch Victor’s eye just for a moment? Next morning, as Annie led the cow to pasture, she ran into Victor at the gate. “Annie, dearest, why do you keep avoiding me? Are you shy? I can never get enough of your beauty—it makes my head spin.” He whispered, “Come see me at dawn. When your Henry leaves for fishing, just slip over, and I’ll shower you with all the love you could wish for.” Annie flushed, cheeks burning, heart racing… but hurried past him in silence. “I’ll be waiting,” he called after her. All day, Annie couldn’t stop thinking about him—Victor, with his smouldering gaze, promising her all she ever wanted. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to cross that line. Not yet… Maybe never. There were still long hours till dawn. That evening, Henry fired up the bathhouse—and even invited Victor to join. Victor happily agreed, saving himself the trouble of heating up his own. The two men swapped stories, laughing and thwacking each other with birch branches. After their steam, they relaxed in the changing room; Annie poured them a jug of homemade cider and arranged snacks, then dashed off for some pickled cucumbers in the cellar. As she came back and reached the door, she overheard voices from inside and paused: “Why so hesitant, Henry?” Victor said quietly. “Come along next time—you won’t regret it. Widows like those, they’ll smother you with affection… And the beauties there! Unlike your Annie—she’s a plain little mouse.” “No, friend,” came Henry’s quiet yet steady reply, “I want none of that. I won’t even think of it. And my Annie isn’t a little mouse—she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. There’s not a flower or berry to match her. When I look at her, I can’t even see the sun—just her eyes, her slender form. My love for her is like a river in flood. I just ache because I can’t speak the words to tell her how much I love her. She feels hurt, I know, and I’m frightened of losing her. I couldn’t live a day without her—I couldn’t even breathe…” Annie stood frozen, heart pounding, a tear sliding down her cheek. Suddenly she lifted her head, strode in, and loudly declared, “Victor, go keep those widows company—we’ve got more important things to do here at home. We don’t yet have anyone to gaze on the beautiful carvings Henry’s making. Forgive me, my dearest, for my foolish thoughts—for my blindness. Happiness was in my hands, and I nearly missed it. Come on, we’ve wasted enough time…” And at dawn the next day, Henry didn’t go fishing.

There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val trudged through the front gate, struggling with the rusty old lock before stepping into her chilly, long-empty cottage, the cold stove her only companion as she settled on a creaky chair. The air was tinged with neglect; three short months away, and the cobwebbed ceilings, groaning floorboards, and angry wind through the chimney greeted her, the house demanding to know where its mistress had vanished. “Just a moment, my dear, I’ll catch my breath and light the stove soon…” Not so long ago, Val was lively and bustling, painting and scrubbing, fetching water, tending the garden, moving nimbly between housework and prayer, her presence breathing life into the old home. The house loved her back—doors swung open at the first touch, the stove baked golden pies, and everything felt right when Val was in charge. She’d outlived her husband and worked hard to raise three children: one son a ship’s captain, the other a colonel, both now living far away, seldom visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed in the village as chief agronomist, popping in at weekends with pies and love, but always whisked away by her duties. The light of Val’s life became her granddaughter Svetlana, a local beauty with shining hair and a city diploma, who returned to work as an economist and, with her new vet husband, received a solid brick house through a social scheme. But Svetlana wasn’t suited to gardening, and life with a small son, Vasya, and little time for anything else, soon saw her begging Val to move in. Reluctant but aging, Val agreed, only to find herself chided for doing little to help. Rejected, she returned alone to her empty cottage, her body slowing, and her heart heavy with guilt for disappointing beloved Svetlana. The village priest, Father Boris, checked in, finding Val battling the cold, scraping by, writing brave letters to her sons—each page declaring how well she was, though the smudged ink betrayed tears. Anna, a neighbor, stepped in to help, while Father Boris brought food, chopped wood, and made sure Val had warmth and company. Tragedy struck when Svetlana, never robust, was diagnosed with lung cancer and passed within six months. Her bereft husband turned to drink and the cemetery, little Vasya neglected until Tamara took him, only to see internment in a boarding school as her only option. It was then that Val, now nearly housebound, insisted Vasya come live with her—“As long as I draw breath, he won’t go to an orphanage.” Against all odds, she found new life in caring for her great-grandson, her energy returning, the once-quiet cottage filled again with warmth, music, and baking. Neighbors gossiped, yet Father Boris discovered Val not feeble and frail, but bustling with renewed purpose as she tended to young Vasya. Reflecting on these turns, Father Boris’s wife, Alexandra, recalled her own great-grandmother Vera Yegorovna, who delayed death itself to help her newborn great-grandchild, declaring as in the old song, “It’s too soon for me to die—there’s still work to be done at home!” Vera lived another ten years, nurturing the generations that followed, her spirit an enduring legacy of love and resilience. And so, in Granny Val’s humble English cottage, as in Vera’s, the truth was plain: there’s still work to be done at home, and always another reason to carry on.

Love Isn’t for Show Ann came out of the cottage carrying a full bucket of pig feed, her mood sour as she passed by her husband, Henry, who had been fiddling with the well for three days now. He wanted to carve it to make it pretty—like he had nothing else to do! While his wife rushed about the house and tended the livestock, he just stood there with his chisel, covered in shavings, grinning at her. What sort of husband had God sent her? He never said a gentle word, never banged his fist on the table—instead he worked quietly, occasionally coming over just to look in her eyes and stroke her thick, honey-blonde braid; that was all the affection she got. But she yearned for more—for “my darling” and “my swan”… She pondered her lot as a wife and nearly tripped over old Bully the dog. In a flash, Henry caught her and gave the dog a stern look: “Watch where you’re going, or you’ll end up hurting the missus!” Bully hung his head and slunk off to his kennel. Ann was once again amazed by how her husband understood animals. She’d once asked Henry about it, and he simply replied, “I love animals, and they love me back.” Ann also dreamed of love—being swept off her feet, whispered sweet nothings, flowers on her pillow every morning. But Henry was stubbornly tight-fisted with affection, and she was starting to doubt if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” called out Victor over the fence, “Henry, are you still busy with that nonsense? Who needs your fancy carvings?” “I want my children to grow up good people, surrounded by beauty.” “You need to make some children first,” laughed Victor, winking at Ann. Henry glanced sadly at his wife, who, blushing, hurried indoors. She wasn’t in a rush for kids—young, pretty, wanting to enjoy life a bit longer, and her husband was neither here nor there. The neighbour, though—he was handsome! And when he met her by the gate, he spoke such sweet words, as gentle as a summer rain: “My little dew drop, my shining sun…” Her soul fluttered, her knees weakened, but Ann always ran away, refusing his advances. When she married, she’d promised to be a faithful wife; her parents had lived together in harmony for years and taught her to cherish her family. But why was she so eager to glance out the window and meet her neighbour’s eyes? The next morning, while driving the cow to graze, she bumped into Victor at the gate: “Ann, my lovely dove, why do you avoid me? Are you afraid? I could stare at your beauty all day—it makes my head spin when I see you. Come to me at dawn. When Henry goes fishing, come to my place. I’ll give you so much tenderness, you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Ann flushed from head to toe, her cheeks burning, her heart racing, but said nothing—she quickly walked past him. “I’ll be waiting,” he called after her. All day, Ann thought of him. She craved love and affection—and Victor was handsome and looked at her with that fiery gaze—but she simply couldn’t go through with anything. There was still time before dawn tomorrow, maybe… That evening, Henry fired up the sauna. He invited the neighbour to join—they lashed each other with birch twigs, sweating and groaning with pleasure. When they finished, Ann brought them a little jug of homemade moonshine and some snacks, then remembered the pickled cucumbers in the cellar. She went to fetch them, but paused in the stairwell at the sound of their conversation through the half-open door. “Why are you so indecisive, Henry?” Victor’s voice was low. “Come on, you won’t regret it. There are widows there who’ll smother you with affection, real beauties—they’d gladden your heart! Not like your Ann, a grey country mouse.” “No, my friend,” came Henry’s quiet but firm reply. “I don’t want any beauties. I can’t even think about that. My wife isn’t some grey mouse—she’s the most wonderful woman in the whole world. There’s no blossom, no berry lovelier than her. When I look at her, I can’t see the sun—just her beautiful eyes and slender waist. I’m overflowing with love for her, like a river in spring. But I’m no good with sweet words. I guess it hurts her, and I’m to blame. I’m scared of losing her—I couldn’t live a day without her, not even breathe…” Ann stood frozen, her heart thundering, a tear running down her cheek. Then, lifting her head high, she strode into the steam room and declared, “Off you go, neighbour—go cheer up those widows! My husband and I have weightier matters. We’ve no one to admire Henry’s carvings yet. Forgive me, my love, for my foolish thoughts, for my blindness—I was holding happiness in my hands and didn’t see it. Come, we’ve wasted enough time already…” And at dawn, Henry didn’t go fishing after all.