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One cold winter, a little mosquito suddenly awoke under the bark of an old maple tree. The mosquito saw the bright rays of the sun penetrating its shelter, decided it was time to awaken, and recklessly flew out from under the bark. At that very moment, a strong wind blew, and the mosquito was carried far from the maple tree, where its siblings remained. Everything became quiet, and the mosquito found itself in an endless, dead field. When it had flown here last summer, everything was fragrant and green, dragonflies darted, butterflies danced, cicadas sang. But now it was quiet, not a blade of grass or a fly in sight. The mosquito shivered from the cold. It had never seen winter. It hadn't even known such a time existed—it only knew that once a year it and its siblings fell into a deep sleep, dozing when it got cold and waking when it got warmer.
Now he began to look around the familiar landscape with longing. He flew to his native swamp, where flies and other mosquitoes met and discussed the latest news. Now it was empty – no reeds, no insects. Even the surface of the water, in which the mosquito and his brothers and sisters loved to swim, had changed and turned into cold, hard ground.
"What happened while we were sleeping?" the mosquito began to imagine the worst with horror.
He needed to wake his relatives and tell them what he had seen. Perhaps the end of the world had come in their beloved forest, and if they didn't fly to other lands, they would die of cold and hunger? The mosquito was frightened. It strained its wings and flew at full speed toward the maple grove.
Suddenly, a cold wind blew again. The small mosquito barely managed to stay in place and continued on, but when another gust of wind blew and knocked the mosquito to the ground, it had to abandon its attempts to reach home and find a place to rest. There was nothing to eat—not a single living creature. And there was nowhere to hide—the field was completely empty. The ground was cold and sticky, and the blades of grass—lonely and dry—were useless. The mosquito found a small hole and took refuge in it for a while.
Another chilling blast of air blew. The sun had long since disappeared behind a thick shroud, and everything around suddenly grew dark. When the wind died down, the mosquito emerged from its hole and flew off again. Just before it could see its forest in the distance, it noticed movement nearby. It turned and spotted a white dot hovering nearby.
"Oh, my God! It's an insect! I have to get to it quickly!"
The mosquito darted forward and caught up with the unfamiliar insect. It must have been a relative of the fly - all white, small and fluffy. The mosquito approached and called out, "Hey, hello!" But the fly, the white fly, didn't answer.
"Maybe it didn't hear me," the mosquito decided. It flew closer and realized the fly was slowly falling.
"Oh no! It's frozen!"
The mosquito flew even closer and tried to grab the poor thing, but didn't have time – the fly touched the ground and seemed to simply disappear.
"Hiding?" the mosquito didn't understand.
Suddenly, in the distance, it saw another fly, just as white, but larger. And it, too, was falling.
"They're really frozen! Now even their wings can't hold them up."
The mosquito flew up again and tried to help, but, just like last time, they ignored him and disappeared under a hummock.
"Look at these proud and uncultured insects! I'm offering them help, and they won't even listen to me!" the mosquito thought resentfully.
The mosquito saw another white fly, and then another, and another. The mosquito looked up at the sky and was horrified – there was a whole swarm of these flies. And they were all just falling silently.
"They won't survive the cold! I have to save at least one of them!" thought the mosquito.
It began flying toward the white flies and catching them, and, incredibly, they simply dissolved right in its paws.
"How can this be! What should I do?"
The small mosquito desperately wanted to help, but didn't know how. Among all the poor white flies, it spotted a very large one. It had beautiful, fluffy, whitish wings and equally unusual antennae. Fabulously beautiful, it swooped down to the ground faster than all the others. The mosquito quickly flew to it, grabbed it, and carried it away—towards his maple tree. It set the fly down on a dry leaf and began examining it.
"Why won't you wake up? Wake up!"
The mosquito darted around the fly, pleading pitifully.
"What's wrong? Don't die!"
The fly continued to lie there, as if dead. Seeing this, the mosquito himself began to feel very cold. Its wings began to freeze and no longer obeyed, and its legs trembled. The fly remained silent.
"No..." the mosquito sat down tiredly next to it and began to cry.
How sad it felt, remaining alone in this terrible world. Other white flies began to fall around them, but the mosquito looked only at the one in front of itself. It continued to sit next to the white fly, mournfully gazing into its beautiful sparkling eyes, thinking that it saw and heard it, only too weak to respond. And then the mosquito suddenly felt a strong urge to sleep. It looked around: a crowd of white flies had already gathered around them—all of them lay lifelessly on top of each other, covering the ground with a carpet of their white, lifeless bodies. The mosquito was frightened. He wanted to fly away, hide back under the bark, but his wings no longer obeyed him—he couldn't move them.
"Oh, my!" the small mosquito became even more frightened.
It pressed itself close to the white fly and held its breath. The swarm of white insects fell like dry leaves. There was no hope left that any of the poor creatures were alive. The sight before its eyes was terrifying, and to avoid further horror, the mosquito turned to look at the fly. It was still beautiful, more beautiful than the other white flies. The mosquito had never seen such beauty. It stared at the fly for so long that it didn't notice how it gradually fell asleep in the cold embrace.
It dreamed of a sunny day on the edge of a blooming forest, and there were white insects, flies, dragonflies, butterflies, and even mosquitoes. They all sang, rejoiced, and flew. None fell, none remained silent. And among them was that same fly – just as beautiful – alive. It sang lullabies to the mosquito and rocked it with its soft wings. Perhaps it wasn't just a fly. Perhaps it and all its relatives were insects from another world that had accidentally wandered into theirs and couldn't find a home. Perhaps they were the insects that were doomed to live on the cold ground while their entire forest slept. Poor white flies.
The mosquito suddenly woke up.
It lay in the warm sun on the same leaf, but now everything around it was alive. The air smelled of awakening summer, pollen, and fresh grass. Streams babbled, birds sang, and the mosquitoes' sisters and brothers were having fun, circling above the ground—it was as if the white fluffy flies had never been in this forest.
The mosquito quickly woke to the surrounding noise and thought about the strange dream it'd had.
Perhaps, f it tells its insect friends about what it saw, they won't believe it.