I was traveling to Paris on a night train when a woman with her son entered at one of the stations. The woman was dressed in dark clothing, and she seemed as gloomy as a rain cloud.
The boy appeared to be slightly over four years old, not yet attending school. The woman set up the bed and laid her son down. The boy entered the compartment cheerfully, and while his mother prepared his sleeping place, he looked at the stars through the window and asked his mother with a hint of sadness, ”
Mom, why does everyone have a dad here, but mine is in the sky? Why? I love him so much and miss our games. Will he collect stars for us in the sky for a long time? I don’t need those stars, nor the moon, nor the sun. I want my dad nearby.” The young woman rearranges the pillows.
Tears rolled down her cheeks; she hugged her little son and barely managed to say, “My sunshine,” she said, “understand, your dad flew to the sky. He collects stars for you at night and sends you his kisses with the sunshine during the day. He will always live on a little cloud. But he sees everything from the sky and loves you very much.” The boy buried his little nose into his mother’s neck, sniffled quietly, and held his mom’s shoulders tightly with both hands.
And then, despite it being November on the street, a star began to fall from the sky. The woman immediately showed it to her son, saying it was a sign from his dad, telling him to stop being sad. As for me, I lay silently on my bunk, and cold tears rolled onto my pillow.
