Алеся Журавлева Good Will Surely Triumph

Tradition

On Saturdays, a special silence settled over our house. Not a heavy one, like before a thunderstorm, but light and ringing, like a little silver bell of anticipation.

Outside the window, rain rustled softly or snow creaked under the feet of rare passersby. But inside the room, everything already breathed with wonder. Dad would take the filmstrip projector down from the top shelf, smelling of warm plastic and memories. Mom would stand on her tiptoes and pin a white sheet to the wallpaper. It billowed up like a light cloud, and Mom would carefully smooth out every little wrinkle. That was what tradition demanded.

Little Anya sat on the floor, her legs tucked under her, watching as a transparent strip of film slipped into the projector — a shimmering river of light and shadow.

Click. Another click. And the gentle whisper of her parents: "Come sit closer, it's about to start."

The room receded and melted away. The first picture appeared on the sheet: a painted wooden tower among snow-covered fir trees, or a summer forest full of flowers, or a royal castle. At the castle gates, a frozen girl in a simple dress was knocking. Anya was no longer Anya. She was Thumbelina in a walnut cradle, gazing at a swallow.

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