The Sun Beneath the Snow

The Sun Beneath the Snow

In a small Ukrainian village named Kryvka, endless fields stretch in every direction — now buried under a heavy quilt of snow. The air carries a cold, haunting silence, as if time itself has stopped. Houses crouch beneath blankets of frost, thin trails of smoke curl up from the chimneys, and somewhere far away, a deep rumble echoes — the kind of sound that no longer startles anyone.

Olga, a mother, sits quietly by the window. There is exhaustion on her face, yet in her eyes, a faint glimmer of light still survives. Beside her sits her little boy, Ivan, holding a steaming bowl of soup. Through the frosted glass, a weak beam of sunlight slips in — warm in color, but not in touch, like a distant memory fading at the edges.

“Eat slowly, Ivan,” Olga whispers. “It’s cold outside. If the soup gets cold, it won’t taste good anymore.”

Ivan nods silently. He is only seven, but there’s a depth in his eyes far beyond his age.

Outside, another distant explosion shakes the ground. The window rattles slightly. Olga doesn’t flinch anymore. Fear was once her guest — now it’s her shadow, sleeping and waking with her.

When Ivan gets scared, he usually buries his face in his mother’s shawl. But not today. Today, he sits still, watching the snow fall — soft, white, and gentle — as though the sky is wrapping the earth in mercy.

Olga knows this war has no visible end. Yet she hates no one. Russia or Ukraine — to her, these names are nothing but lines on a map. Pain has only one color: gray. Somewhere, she believes, another mother is sitting by another window, praying for someone she loves.

At the edge of the village lives an old man named Mykhailo. Frost clings to his beard, but every morning he still goes to the fields. His hands hold an old shovel, his eyes, a quiet peace. Once a farmer, he still believes in the strength of the soil.

“This earth will save us,” he often says.

Whenever Olga hears that, something warm stirs inside her chest.

One morning, after many weeks, the sun finally breaks through the clouds. Its light spreads across the snow-covered village like a promise. Children rush outside, laughing, throwing snowballs, their voices ringing like tiny bells in the frozen air. For a moment, even the sky seems to melt.

Olga stands by the window, watching. A small smile touches her lips — the first in a long, long time.

“Mom,” Ivan cries, “the sun is out!”

“Yes,” Olga says softly, “the sun has risen… see? It hasn’t given up.”

That afternoon, Olga makes more soup in the kitchen. Through the window, she sees Mykhailo working in the field, breaking the frozen soil with his shovel. A few neighbors are with him — some spreading seeds, some clearing snow. Olga thinks, No matter how much fear or pain people face, somehow, the will to live always finds its way back.

Suddenly Ivan asks, “Mom, when will I go back to school?”

Olga pauses. She doesn’t know. But she smiles gently and says, “When the sky stops making that noise.”

Ivan frowns. “So… when the sun comes back?”

Olga strokes his hair and whispers, “Yes, when the sun comes back.”

As the day fades and the sky turns red, Olga steps outside. Her boots sink into the soft snow. In the distance, a group of children are still laughing, throwing snowballs. Their laughter seems to drown out the faint echo of faraway shelling.

Olga looks up at the glowing horizon and murmurs to herself,

“If the sun can rise again, then so can we.”

Tears don’t come to her eyes — she knows tears aren’t what the world needs now. What it needs is light.

Light means hope. Light means the promise of life.

Night falls again. Snowflakes drift down softly, covering the quiet village. Inside, the fire burns steady. Ivan sleeps in his mother’s arms. Olga holds him close, as if her warmth alone could protect him from the world’s coldness.

She doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring. But she believes — as long as people can love, the sun will always live beneath the snow.

Because beyond war, beyond politics, beyond flags and borders — people are still people.

Their tears fall the same way, and in every heart, the same small fire of hope continues to burn.

(Every story carries the scent of life and the touch of emotion.

Stay with me — listen to the words that speak to the heart and whisper hope in the quiet.

Follow along, because behind every word lies a new sunrise…

a reminder that even in silence, stories still breathe. 🌤️)