Hryhorii by Julia Baran

On Rudenko Street there lived a man named Hryhorii,

a neighbour whom everyone tried to avoid. Every morning at six, he would turn on his TV so loudly that the entire courtyard could hear it. He never responded to greetings, only glared from under his brow as if everyone around was disturbing his life. The children in the yard were afraid of him because he could suddenly yell if someone laughed too loudly or played near his window. Once, he kicked a dog, making it yelp pitifully and run away. That scene only strengthened his reputation as a cruel and indifferent person. But one day, when a downpour flooded the yard, that same dog appeared again at his door - wet, matted, and shivering from the cold. Hryhorii, who usually chased everyone away, suddenly paused and looked at him. The dog didn’t beg or whine, just sat patiently, as if waiting for something. Without saying a word, Hryhorii opened the door wider. The dog slowly walked inside. Children saw this moment - the same grumpy old man who always chased them from the yard was now standing in the doorway, letting the dog in. Over time, it became clear: the dog no longer roamed the streets. The man had taken him in. Thereafter, people stopped treating him with disdain; neighbours occasionally helped him, cleaned his apartment, bought him groceries, and the children would come to play with the dog and take it for walks. It’s hard to say he entirely changed - he still grumbled at the kids when they were loud and kept turning up the TV volume - but there was something new in his eyes now: a warmth that no one had noticed before.