The Old Man s Words

The Old Man's Words
by Dmitry Podshivalov

Once, on one of those gray and raw days when it seems the sky is too tired to hold the sun and the world has lost its colors, I sat on a bench in an empty autumn park. The wind flung handfuls of prickly leaves into my face, my phone had been silent for two weeks, and only uncertainty lay ahead.
I looked at the bare branches of the trees and thought that my own life was now like this November garden — just as desolate and frozen, waiting for something frightening. It seemed like a dead end.
And then I noticed an old man. He was walking slowly along the path, leaning on a cane with a carved knob. He wasn't bundled up in a scarf, though it was cold, and a slight smile played on his face, as if he knew some secret. Drawing level with my bench, he stopped and looked directly at me with his astonishingly clear, blue eyes.
"It's cold today," said the old man, stating a fact rather than starting a conversation. "But you know, lad, after such a winter, the clearest spring always comes."
I snorted.
"Easy to talk about spring when you have so many years behind you."
The old man chuckled softly and sat down beside me, leaning heavily on his cane.
"Years have nothing to do with it. I'm talking about the laws of life. Look around. The trees seem dead. They've lost everything: leaves, beauty, protection from the wind. It seems like the end for them. But they haven't died. They're just resting. They store their sap deep inside, where no one can see. So that in spring they can shoot out new buds stronger than before. The strongest trees don't come from those who grew in greenhouse conditions, but from those who survived the harshest frost."
He turned to me.
"You have your own winter now, son. Your personal, long winter. It's scary, damp, lonely. You think it will always be like this. But darkness only thickens before dawn. The darkest hour is always before the sky begins to lighten. What you consider the end is actually just a page turn. The pain you feel is not punishment. It's growth. That's how muscles ache after a good workout. It means you're getting stronger."
The old man stood up, patting his knees.
"Don't be afraid to fall. Be afraid to stop getting up. Every step forward you take, even the smallest, through 'I can't' and 'why,' is a victory over this winter. Just breathe. And believe. Spring will definitely come. It is never late."
Having said this, he walked on, leaving me alone with my thoughts. But there was no loneliness anymore. There was silence. The calm, ringing silence of anticipation.
I lifted my head. For the first time in a long while, I noticed how deep and blue the color of the sky was between the black branches. I smelled the damp earth and decaying leaves — the honest, living scent of withering that prepares the soil for new life.
I rose from the bench. The cold no longer seemed so biting. Deep inside, very deep, beneath the layers of fear and fatigue, a tiny but firm warmth was born. Like the very sap the old man had spoken of.
Everything will truly be alright. Not because the problems will disappear by themselves. But because now I know for sure: any winter ends. You just have to wait for your sun.