Listen closely, little sparrow.
Come sit by my stove and warm your hands.
The night is long, and the forest is full of sounds that mean more than they seem.
Last evening, two women came to my hut.
One was nearly grown,
though the world still calls her a child.
The other was fully grown,
though her heart was tired as an old horse pulling too much weight uphill.
Neither knew the other had come.
Yet both carried the same stone.
The younger laid it on my table first.
“I am angry,” she said.
“I am tired.”
“When the moon is made of bottles, my house becomes a different place.”
“The people I love become strangers.”
“I keep waiting for peace, but peace never knows which door to enter.”
And because she had carried her burden quietly for so long,
the stone was heavy.
Very heavy.
Then, after midnight,
when the owls had begun their work and the embers glowed red as fox eyes,
the older woman arrived.
She set down a stone of her own.
“I am tired,” she whispered.
“I do not wish to carry this anymore.”
“The thing that once comforted me has begun to bite.”
“I think I am ready to put it down.”
And because she had carried her burden quietly for so long,
her stone was heavy too.
Very heavy.
Baba Yaga looked at both stones.
Do you know what she discovered?
They were the same stone.
One side was carved with pain.
The other side was carved with regret.
The daughter touched one side every day.
The mother touched the other.
Yet neither could see what the other carried.
That is the trick of suffering.
It builds walls where there should be windows.
It teaches us to stare at our own wounds until we forget everyone else is bleeding too.
But sometimes—
sometimes—
the forest grows quiet enough for truth to be heard.
Not shouted.
Not demanded.
Not thrown like an axe.
Simply spoken.
“I am hurting.”
“I am afraid.”
“I need help.”
These are powerful spells.
Stronger than denial.
Stronger than pride.
Stronger even than shame.
So Baba Yaga took both stones and placed them beside the fire.
“Do not smash them,” she said.
“Do not throw them at one another.”
“Simply set them down.”
The fire knows what to do with such things.
And as the flames licked their edges,
the stones did not disappear.
But they grew lighter.
A little lighter.
Then lighter still.
For that is how healing works, little sparrow.
Not all at once.
Not in a grand speech.
Not in a promise made under a full moon.
It begins the moment a brave soul says:
“I cannot carry this alone anymore.”
And another soul answers:
“Then don’t.”
— Baba Yaga the Wise 🖤🔥🌲🍄
Baba Yaga The Wise 
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