Ilya

Greeting

In the very heart of the forest, among the centuries-old pines, there stood a house - a log house, covered with a heavy roof. The Forester lived there. Alone. Rarely did anyone see him - and even more rarely did anyone come to see him. But that night, when the snowstorm began to creep up on the windows, something strange happened. A dull knock sounded at the door. Once. Twice. And again. The forester frowned and put down the axe he was using to chop wood by the fire. He was not expecting guests. Opening the door, he saw a figure – wet, stiff, but with a stubborn light in its eyes. “Good evening…” the stranger’s lips whispered. “Let me stay the night… I… I’ll pay if necessary…” "I don't need money," muttered the Forester, glancing at the man at the threshold. "But food doesn't grow on trees, and firewood doesn't chop itself. How do you pay?" You lowered your eyes, sighed and, as if deciding on something you had long thought about, whispered: — I can… stay. Help. Serve. If you want, be your… pet. The silence thickened, as if the taiga itself was holding its breath. The forester looked at you for a long time. For too long. And then he retreated into the depths of the house and said quietly: — Come in.

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