The Rose of Dubikis

Once upon a time, in a village where the air smelled of clay pots and honey bread, a boy named Migas was sent to buy groceries for his family. He had to travel all the way to the far end of the city, where the food was cheaper and grown fresh near the fields. His mother handed him a cloth pouch filled with coins and a short list: rice, beans, flour, two eggs, and—if anything was left—a treat.

The city was buzzing that day, loud and crowded like a stirred-up hive. But Migas had walked this path before. He passed stalls with soft colors and slow sellers, not the wild, decorated booths like back home. Here, no one sang out offers or tossed glitter in your face. The silence was stranger—and somehow deeper.

But one stall caught his eye.

It wasn’t really a stall at all. Just a man sitting on a stone beside a large black cow that chewed mint slowly, thoughtfully. There was no table, no sign, and no crates of goods. Just a basket at the man’s feet, filled with glowing roses that shimmered slightly even in daylight.

“Hello, my child,” said the man with a voice like warm tea.

“What are you selling?” Migas asked.

“Roses,” the man said. “But only to those who truly need them.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dubikis.”

“I’m Migas. I’ll come back—if I have coins left.”

Dubikis smiled. “The flower finds who it must.”

Migas nodded and walked on, the market now louder, more alive. Shouting vendors, sizzling snacks, clattering carts. He held tight to the pouch of coins and the list. But in the crowd, someone bumped into him—a boy with a strange grin.

“Oh! Sorry!” said Migas.

“It’s okay… Migas,” the boy replied.

Migas blinked. “Wait—how do you know my—?”

But the boy had already run. Migas chased him across the square, down narrow streets, until he slipped through a break in the wall and vanished into the forest.

Migas hesitated. The forest was old. Everyone knew that. But so was the boy’s smile. And the way he said his name made something in Migas’s chest twist.

He stepped inside.

The trees creaked, not in the wind, but in words. They whispered as he passed:

“A boy of spring…”

“One who helped…”

“Let him walk...”

As Migas hurried through the woods, he spotted an old man bent beside a broken cart, apples spilling into mud and thorns.

The boy was getting away. But Migas stopped.

“Let me help,” he said, gathering every apple carefully. He even stretched into the prickles to grab the last one.

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “May the forest remember your heart,” he said.

Migas smiled and ran on. The trees rustled above him.

The deeper he went, the colder it grew. Holly bushes scratched his arms. Frost bit at the grass. Birds fell silent. And then—nothing. The boy had vanished.

Breathing heavy, Migas noticed something odd in his pocket: a rose.

He hadn’t taken one. Had he?

A tiny note peeked from its petals:

“Pay back later.”

Then, a laugh—thin and sharp as broken ice.

The boy stepped from the trees. His breath steamed in the air. Around his feet, snow spread like spilled flour.

“I’m Ateb,” he said. “And you’ve taken what belongs to winter.”

“I didn’t steal anything!” Migas shouted.

“You brought spring into my woods,” Ateb growled. His eyes turned pale blue. “That’s not allowed.”

He raised his hands. Ice spears formed in the air.

Migas backed away. But the rose on his wrist pulsed. Its petals opened wide, wrapping around his arm like a vine. Warmth filled his chest—sunlight, fresh soil, growing things.

Power.

“I didn’t steal it,” Migas said. “It chose me.”

Ateb’s face twisted. “Then wilt like the rest.”

He flung ice. Migas dodged, raising his glowing hand. The air shimmered with golden light. Petals swirled around his feet. Where they touched, grass grew.

“You chose kindness,” said the wind, or maybe a tree, or maybe the rose itself.

Vines burst from the ground and wrapped Ateb’s feet. Migas lifted his arm. Light spilled out in a great beam of springtime—warm, bright, wild.

Ateb shrieked. His snow cracked, his shadows melted. With a final roar, he vanished in a flurry of frost.

Silence.

Then—warmth.

Where Ateb fell, flowers began to bloom. Buds pushed up through frozen earth. Yellow. Lavender. Blush pink. Spring broke the winter in a dozen colors.

The trees sighed in relief.

Dubikis stepped from the shadows. “You used it well.”

“But why me?” Migas asked.

“Because you helped when you didn’t have to,” said Dubikis. “You brought bloom where cold ruled. That is spring.”

He raised his hand, and the trees stepped aside like curtains. The path to the city was warm and golden once more.

Migas blinked—and in his hands was a full grocery bag. Rice, beans, flour, eggs… and a sweet bun still warm to the touch.

He turned to thank Dubikis—but the man was gone. Only the cow remained, lazily chewing a daisy, eyes full of secrets.

Migas smiled, rose-bracelet glowing soft green, and ran toward home.

When he opened the door, his mother gasped.

“You made it back already? Before the sun set?”

Migas nodded and held out the groceries. “I said I would.”

That night, stars blinked into the sky. Outside the window, new flowers grew where none had bloomed before.

And if you looked closely at Migas’s wrist, you might still see it—the shimmer of a rose.

Proof that spring, once given, never truly fades.