Snow White 2025 fairy tale for those who’ve been told theirs is over

Prologue

There was morning—

but no songs.

The forest had no names.

One day, the world forgot how fairy tales sound.

Not in a moment.

Not with a snap—

But slowly,

As if winter stretched on for years.

The dwarves faded into legends.

The castles became office towers.

And the magic mirrors—

turned into screens

that reflect everything

except the truth.

Snow White slept.

Because of the apple.

Because of the curse.

Because no one called.

Fairy tales, when no longer believed in—fall asleep.

Until one day,

A drilling machine pierced the layer of ancient time.

A spark touched a crystal coffin.

And someone said:

“Stop.”

And time flinched.

That’s how it began—

The story no one believed in

but that dared to open its eyes again.

In this world,

Where likes mean more than words,

Where voices become whispers,

And souls get stuck in fatigue—

She awoke.

Snow White.

Not as a princess. But as a question:

What does it mean to be alive

When everything around you is asleep?

Chapter 1: The Awakening

Once upon a time, in a cave beyond seven hills, a girl lay in a crystal coffin.

At first, she was guarded by dwarfs – their hands wrinkled, their hearts sharp as flint.

But time spares neither magic nor memory:

the dwarfs aged, one by one disappeared, and the forest forgot their names. The cave grew over with moss.

The entrance collapsed under stones.

And then came the 21st century. Noise. Light. Trembling earth.

New people, wearing helmets, with drilling machines, digging tunnels,

searching for superconducting crystals and holographic minerals. A machine operator named Marco – tired, half-numb to the world – suddenly saw a strange reflection.

A light pierced the rock face and bounced off something transparent. “Stop,” he said,

and the drill froze – as if it, too, were afraid. They found a cavern.

In its center – a coffin, gleaming like frozen glass.

Inside – a girl, seemingly asleep.

Next to her – a young man in a theatrical costume, a fleck of dried blood on his lip. Marco called 911. Sirens. Helicopters.

Hazmat suits. Cameras. IV drips.

Snow White and the young man (listed in reports as “Unknown, artistic type”) were taken to a clinic.

Diagnosis: prolonged exposure to unknown toxins.

Possibly – ancient chemical contamination. They didn’t age.

They didn’t die.

They were simply… waiting. Slowly.

Silently.

Like music resting on a forgotten staff,

waiting for someone to play it againNow, Snow White lies in a hospital bed – pale as snow – with an IV in her arm.

Green monitors blink softly. The young man is on the balcony outside,

gazing at the sky, relearning how to breathe. He’s not a prince.

He’s an actor.

He was rehearsing a role—

when he found her.

And now…

he’s not sure

where the stage ends,

and life begins. Music returns.

Not from a forest.

From the nurse’s headphones.

Playlist: 2025 – lo-fi, space, rain. The room smells faintly of apples.

And – somehow – of spring. Room seven is calm.

Monitors beep steadily.

Soft lamps glow like moons. Snow White is sleeping —

not in a crystal coffin anymore,

but in a hospital bed with pressure cushions and adjustable rails. The young man – the one found beside her —

sits at her side, holding her hand. He woke up first.

And asked: “Where’s the throne room?

Why does it smell like alcohol and bananas?” The nurse adjusted the IV and smiled gently: “You’re in the ICU.

You’ve just come out of a long coma.” “Is this… a dungeon?” “A clinic.” “Were we kidnapped?” “No, no, just rest.

The performance can wait.” When Snow White finally awoke,

she sat up in bed and asked: “Where are the dwarfs?

Who erased my eyebrows?” The doctor looked at the nurse.

The nurse looked at the doctor.

Then at the monitor.

Then back again. “Psych evaluation. Immediately.

And please, don’t let her touch the tablet —

she thinks it’s a magic mirror.” Police opened an official file: Two theater performers.

Found in a mountain cave.

Diagnosis: temporary amnesia. Possible scenario: the couple got lost during a rehearsal. The file was labeled:

“Snow White Incident – Version 2.5.” The psychologist asked the standard intake question: “Name, age, place of residence?” The young man answered with dignity: “Prince. Twenty-seven. Kingdom east of the Enchanted Forest.” Snow White added: “I’m the first daughter of a king.

And I’m definitely not from a village.”

The psychologist marked the form.

Paused.

Sighed. “They’re holding hands,” the night nurse observed. “He kissed her and passed out again,” said another.

“Can you believe it?” “They’re probably trapped in some immersive theater piece,” the doctor muttered. “Deep method acting,” the nurse nodded.

“Too deep.” Just in case, they were entered into the system with new names: Snow White: Snow White

Prince: King And were issued gray hospital gowns.

The crown and throne – still under investigation. But they keep asking: “When is the royal ball?”

“Where’s my horse?”

“Who tied wires to my body?” And only the intern, passing by quietly, whispers: “I believe.

I saw her smile—

when a deer walked past the window.”

Chapter 2. A King Without a Throne and Snow White Without a Castle

In an American clinic in Colorado, Patients #47 and #48 continued to insist they were from a kingdom beyond the Misty Mountains. “My name is Snow White,” said the pale-skinned young woman, her foreign accent soft but confident. “I am the king’s daughter, with kindness, singing, and knowledge of herbs.”

“And I am His Majesty. My kiss once saved the world,” added the young man in a hospital gown, holding a plastic cup of jelly as though it were a scepter. The doctors merely shrugged: “Psychosis?”

“No… just old fairy tales.”

“And no insurance coverage.” Upon discharge, they stood on the clinic’s edge, clutching a box. Inside was one robe, two pairs of slippers, a pamphlet: “Start Over in the USA”, and a sheet of questions: “Education? Skills?” A Burger Palace manager asked, “Can you work a cashier?”

Snow White answered hopefully, “No, but I can talk to deer.”

“And you?” he asked the "King."

“I can inspire people, issue decrees, and fight for justice.”

“Great. Grab the mop—start with the restrooms.” And so, their lives changed. Their New Reality

– The “King” began washing floors with dignity and nearly royal grace.

– Snow White—now wearing a hairnet—washed dishes while softly singing to pots instead of birds.

She would tell the staff’s children: “Even if you’re born in a castle, without skills you’re still in a burger joint. But with a kind heart, you can live with dignity.” They shared a modest apartment—no throne, but with a microwave and a stained sofa no one could clean. Sometimes they gazed at the stars. “Maybe it’s a spell,” Snow White mused. “Or just life.”

The King nodded: “In a world that doesn’t believe in kings, you just have to be a good human.”

Fairytales aren’t dead. They just take off their crowns and go for job interviews.

Sometimes with a wet mop. Sometimes with a smile. The King’s morning routine: He was called “Bob” at work and began each day with a bucket center-stage in the restroom. “It’s not a throne, but it’s an elevation,” he joked, composing rhymes for the cleaning supplies:

“For Glory, Cleanliness, and Shine! May Mold and Grease fall to the power of Mr. Bleach!” Even the manager couldn’t help but laugh. Snow White—now “Snezhi”—treated dishes like priceless mirrors: “Each plate is a mirror of fate—if it doesn’t shine, don’t look in it.” One day she caught a rat in the kitchen—but instead of killing it, she fed it. “That’s not a rat. It’s a forgotten fairy. It’s just cold.” Soon the staff began dropping crumbs “for luck.” Magical creatures appeared in corners. On weekends, they studied at the library: Snezhi learning English, the King deciphering tax forms. King (grimacing): “What kind of monster is this tax paper? Where’s its heart so I can stab it?” One evening, a sad little boy entered the restaurant, waiting for his mom’s shift to end. The King sat him on an onion crate and told him a story about a dragon who could cry. Snezhi gave the boy an orange. “Inside it is sunshine. Eating it warms you from within.” There began their quiet magic:

– Fairytales for the weary.

– Smiles for the lost.

– Strength to survive where there are no castles. Though still a cleaner, the King now knew every employee’s child by name and made tin-foil crowns for them. “Never forget,” he would say, “even if you’re mopping floors, you can be a king in someone’s heart.” A world may not always be magical—but you can be magical within it.

Even with a rag. Even in rubber gloves. They rented a small house on the edge of town—hat-box mailbox shaped like a mushroom, curtains patterned with daisies. In the yard grew a bush Snow White called the “raspberry throne,” while the King called it the “cold jungle.” They had an old kettle, two robes, a rubber duck, and—most importantly—love. Love that soothed souls after long shifts and warmed hearts with homemade soup. Every Sunday they walked in the park. Snow White scattered crumbs for pigeons (the “magic messengers”), and the King fed squirrels with royal flair. Holding hands, they looked as if spring could still come. “Love and labor,” she said, “can grind anything down.”

“Especially with a good sauce,” he added. At work, no one found them peculiar anymore. Snezhi became shift supervisor. The King was officially the "morale and safety officer" (a cleaner with mic privileges). One evening, Jeff—a tall colleague with piercings—said: “You two look like you’ve been in theater all your lives.”

“Maybe I haven’t left it,” Snow White smiled.

“And I’m still waiting for my ovation,” added the King.Then they were invited to a local cultural center: “Open auditions. The theater seeks new faces.”

“And hearts,” Jeff added. “You’ve got two—crowns inside.” That evening, they sat by the window—on the table: a toaster and tea; on the sill: socks drying in moonlight. “What if nobody believes us?” Snow White asked.

“Then we’ll act so they will,” replied the King.

“And what if we fail?”

“Then we’ll go home. I’ll mop the floor, you’ll cook dinner. Still a win.” They left.

On Tuesday—audition day. He wore a thrift-store blazer; she wore a donated dress, dressed up with one small, old ribbon—still magical. She sang simply about love and birds. He recited a monologue from his own life—about keeping self-worth even while scrubbing toilets. The jury was silent—then applauded. One said: “You reminded us why theater exists.” The fairytale had never ended.

It had simply taken off its apron,

opened its heart,

and stepped onto the stage. But they never forgot Burger Palace. “It was our first stage,” the King laughed.

“And our first audience—were mice.”

Chapter 3. Who Is the Real Snow White? The Song They Heard

The play was simply h2d:

“Snow White and the King”

Inspired by life. Inspired by heart. Roles were assigned immediately:

The King played the King.

Snow White played Snow White. It seemed straightforward… but nothing is ever that simple.

The director—a lean figure with a long neck and an eternal scarf—paced the stage like a kettle about to whistle. “Snow White must be ethereal! Airy! She must float like a shadow!” Snow White quietly offered, “I can wash dishes softly.”

At rehearsal, the director halted mid-scene:

“No—no—no! You completely miss the subtle essence of Snow White! Where is the lightness, the innocence, the naive longing?!” Snow White stayed silent, drew a breath, lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry.” And the King… he shrank into the curtains, clutching the armrest. He knew if he uttered a word, the performance would collapse—forever.

In the corridor, someone whispered: “She’s nothing like her.”

“Yes, odd… more like someone who keeps house.” Snow White thought: as if any of you ever saw the real one. As if you’d lived with her, cried with her, washed dishes with her after a shift. That night, they sat on a bench outside the theater. The King ate a gummy candy. Snow White held the script on her lap, not reading it. “Am I a bad actress?” she asked.

“No,” he answered gently. “You’re real. And that sometimes frightens people.”

“And what if he’s right? I can’t fly.”

“So what? You hold things—yourself, me, the world.”

On the dress rehearsal day, the director rolled his eyes again:

“I don’t feel any magic! Where’s the fairytale?!”

Then Snow White stood up, took off her artificial wreath, and walked to center stage. She spoke—unscripted:

“Snow White isn’t just about apples, a crystal coffin, and floor-length gowns.

Snow White is the one who doesn’t give up.

Who doesn’t complain.

Who doesn’t lose her light in trouble.

If you don’t see the fairytale in me—that means you’re looking in the wrong place.”

Silence fell. The director removed his scarf. Someone in the audience applauded. The King stood to the side, eyes shining with sunlight.

Being real

is more important than being similar.

And the fairytale begins

when you stop pretending. A simple yet moving poster by the entrance read:

“Snow White and the King”

a new story of old love.

The audience included schoolchildren, grandmothers, tourists, and tired employees from the nearby diner.

At the back row sat Cinderella, with her daughter—small, in pajamas beneath her coat, wearing a red bow. The curtain rose. The King walked out first—silent, patient. “Where’s Snow White?” whispered the crowd. Footsteps rang out—not airy, but real. Snow White walked slowly… through life, through snowstorms and dishes, through overnight shifts and memories. When she spoke, her voice trembled—not from fear: “I awoke—not from a kiss, but from cold and loneliness.

Then he took my hand…

And I believed again.” Scenes shifted. No magic, but real light: “Here’s the apple,” she said. “It’s bitter if eaten alone.”

“Here are the dwarfs. They’re gone, but we remember them.”

“Here’s the crown. Made of cardboard—but with kindness, everyone believes.”

The little girl in the back row stared, not blinking, and whispered to her mother: “That’s her.”

“Who?”

“The real Snow White.” At the end, the audience stood. The director wiped his eyes. Snow White simply bowed—and saw the little girl waving at her, the pure faith that no script can capture.

Afterwards, an actress in a shimmering coat (who had played a witch in a neighboring show) approached them: “You have to stay.”

“Why?”

“Because you remind us why we started all this.”

The King held Snow White’s hand and felt:

she was breathing, not trembling—and finally not wanting to run away.

Sometimes one audience member is enough. If they believe—then the play exists. And the fairytale continues.

As the theater emptied slowly—like the tide receding and leaving shells, forgotten scarves, and cookies brought by guests—Snow White sat on the edge of the stage, her shoes dangling. The King poured tea into plastic cups backstage.

Then a light filled the foyer—not stage lighting, but a quiet, inner glow, as if someone had opened a window to another world.

“Hello,” said a woman in a blue cloak. She wore embroidered boots, a silver tiara, and a necklace of beads made by children.

“Cinderella?” Snow White whispered.

“Yes,” nodded the guest. “We watched through the time portal. We couldn’t stay away.”

Beside her stood a girl—a copy of Cinderella, freckles and a wild look of someone yet undecided: fairy or meteor?

“Mom, is that the Snow White?” The girl rushed across the stage, peered into the wings, then into Snow White’s eyes.

“Did you really live in a castle?”

“Once,” she smiled. “And now… in a house with a gas stove and a cat named Director.”

They laughed. The air smelled of tangerines and wet snow.

“We came,” said Cinderella, “not just to say goodbye.”

“Oh?”

“You have a choice. The time machine still works. We can bring you back to your era—gnomes, forest, your fairytale await.”

“And here?” Snow White asked quietly.

“Here is life. Not a fairy tale. But still full of wonders—morning coffee, not roses.”

Pause. Snow White looked at her hands, at the dress sewn by three neighbors, at the silent hall.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Take your time,” the girl from Cinderella said. “There is no wrong answer.”

They walked together down the street. Snow fell slowly—like a ballerina on pointe. Lamps hummed their golden songs. “We’ll walk you to the portal,” Cinderella said.

“But the choice is yours.” By an old park wall, where stalls once stood, there now was an arched light—a frozen jump of water. “Here it is,” Cinderella whispered. “Time is flexible. Fairytales wait.” The King stood silent, holding Snow White’s scarf in his pocket—the one she’d left before the show. “I’ll go,” she finally said. “I want to say goodbye—and return when I am ready.”

Cinderella nodded.

“We will wait. We—your whole era.” When Snow White stepped through the portal, the snow didn’t stop – but the wind softened, and music—like someone rewinding an old record—started: “Tra‑la‑la… Snow White… back on the road…” In a fairytale, the ending isn’t the key—it’s knowing the way back… and forward when needed.

The portal closed like a feather landing on water; the light faded, but warmth remained. Snow White and the King stood on the threshold of their time—forest, woodsmoke, old stove, golden sunlight through pines. “We’re home,” Snow White whispered.

“Like waking from a long dream,” the King replied. In the clearing where her crystal coffin once lay, flowers now bloomed; crickets chirped, and a slow turtle moved by, holding a note: “Welcome back. Your room is clean. The stove is warm. With love—Gnome Five, if you remember.” They laughed—long and deeply—like those who have understood everything but kept their hearts. Meanwhile, Cinderella stood at the time-machine console. Her daughter pressed buttons—skilled beyond her years. Cinderella’s son lounged with feet up, eating candy. “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” the girl asked.

“I already did,” Cinderella softly answered. “And I promised, too.”

She stepped toward the portal and called:

“Snow White! We’ll come when we miss you! We’ll have a picnic in the clearing! I’ll bring a blanket, a pie and fairytales!” From the trees came another voice: “And hot tea—don’t forget!”

The portal shimmered. Wind kissed branches.

The time machine hummed, then flickered away, leaving a feather drifting to the grass. Snow White and the King began anew—learning to bake bread, stoking a sauna, redoing theater for curious birds, hares, and an inquisitive hedgehog. Each week, beside a trail, they left treats—just in case someone from the future dropped in. At night, the King composed poems. Snow White gazed at the stars and softly said: “So… how’s your Burger Throne, Cinderella?” Late one evening, with stars shining bright, a familiar sparkle landed on the grass…

The Time Machine Returned

And out jumped the children—one with a flashlight, the other with a pie, and Cinderella—with a blanket. “We missed you,” they said. And once again, there were stories.

And once again—a night scented with baked apples.

And once again—love that neither time nor space could stop. In a world where portals close,

hearts remain open.

And if you truly wish,

you can always find your way back—

or forward—

to a fairytale where everything is real.

Where work is joy.

And love is not a myth, but a home. That morning, the grass sparkled with dew.

Snow White woke everyone with a song—soft as the rustling wind. “Rise and shine! Today we’re going on an excursion to the Lake of Wonders!” Cinderella’s children—Lily and Max—leapt out of bed. “Are there mermaids there?”

“What about a water spirit?”

“Can we swim?”

“You can do anything—as long as it’s with kindness,” Snow White smiled.

While the grown-ups packed baskets with food, Lily had already drawn a map, and Max built a fishing rod out of a branch and string.

The King winked, “True explorers.” And off they went—along the forest path, past mushroom-stumps, through clearings where squirrels held long jump competitions. Lily fed them cookies, while Max took notes: “Common squirrel. Jump: nearly like a grasshopper.”

At the Lake of Wonders, the water sang.

It truly sang—clear and shimmering, like a spring that knows all the songs of spring.

Lilies floated on the surface, and among them—a mermaid.

Not scary, not mysterious—just cheerful, freckled. “Guests!” she called. “I’ve been waiting since last vacation!” Her name was Lima.

She showed the children how to braid seaweed crowns and race across lily pads.

While they played, the King fried potatoes over the fire.

Snow White read aloud a fairytale—about a dragon who baked pies.

Cinderella lay in the grass, smiling softly up at the sky. That evening, as they walked home, Lily whispered to her mother:

“Can we stay here forever?”

Cinderella hugged her.

“We can always come back.”

“Even when we grow up?”

“Especially then.”

That night, after the children were asleep, the adults sat by the window, sipping herbal tea. “I think we remembered something very important,” said Snow White.

“What’s that?”

“That we’re not heroes. We’re human—

with hands, with tiredness,

with love, and care.”

“And good neighbors,” added the King, “and very noisy children.” Fireflies flickered outside.

And the moon hung above the roof.

In its light, you could read:

“The fairytale continues.” A New Morning.

The morning was clear and light, like the breath before a new page.

Sunlight kissed the windowsills, and the wind touched the curtains softly—as if saying goodbye. Cinderella stood on the lawn.

Lily held a basket of pies, and Max waved a handkerchief.

Beside them, the dome of the time machine gleamed—round as a moon pearl, glowing gently blue. Snow White held Cinderella’s hands. “I’ll hug you and never let go,” she whispered. “Can I… come to visit?”

“Of course,” Cinderella said. “We’re all under the same sky. We just wear different clocks. But if you truly want—it’s always possible. In the pause between seconds.”

The King bowed to Lily and Max, just as royal protocol required. “Say hello to Alangazar. And take care of your mom.”

“We’ll build him a new oven!” promised Max.

“And knit him a hat!” added Lily. The time machine hummed softly, like a sleepy bumblebee.

Then—a flash, a gentle pop—and all that remained in its place was a daisy. Snow White stood silently for a long time.

A soft sadness, like morning mist, curled around her shoulders.

The King approached and quietly said: “Do you want us to find a machine too?”

She nodded without looking and replied:

“I do. But not just to leave—

to be able to return.

Whenever I wish.” That evening, they sat by the fireplace.

The wood crackled. Rain fell softly outside—

as if the world, too, was remembering. “I used to think magic was crowns and dreams,” the King said.

“Or kisses. Or fairy dust.”

He stirred his tea.

“But today I realized—magic is work. Every day.

When you make your own morning.

When you wash, and study, and clean.

When you grow goodness.” Snow White looked at him, and the firelight trembled in her eyes. “And magic is also understanding. Not just each other—but yourself.

Why you’re here. What you can do.

Who you want to become.”

The King sighed—not heavily, but freely.

He stood and paced the room.

Looked at the books, the globe, the old suitcase with tools. “We’ll build our own magic. With our own hands.”

“What about actual magic?” she asked with a smile.

“Magic is simply mind, effort, and love—fused in one heart.

And a desire to learn.

In a world where planes fly and children heal their toys—magic exists,

if you are its source.” The Next Day. The King signed up for classes.

He wanted to study machines and technologies,

and build homes where children would feel safe. Snow White enrolled in evening school.

She loved reading, counting, writing—and drawing her own fairytales.

They knocked down a wall and built a library.

Installed solar panels.

Added stairs to the attic and made a workshop there.

It smelled of books and coffee.

And inspiration returned. A month later, a man in glasses stood at their door. “I design small time machines,” he said.

“For brief journeys—back to your younger self. Or a favorite evening.

Or even just 15 minutes ago—so you can hug someone again.” The King smiled: “We’re ready.”

so Snow White got her own time machine.

Small. Modest.

With soft light and a cozy chair. It didn’t travel far.

But it could bring her back to the moment Lily laughed,

or Cinderella waved,

or trees whispered by the Lake of Wonders. And on those short trips,

Snow White brought tea, walnuts, a kind book—

and a royal hand, warm and steady. In the evenings, they returned to their work. Because they now understood:

In a world where magic is everyday effort,

love is a skill,

and the fairytale—

is the path you walk with your own feet. Fawns. Morning was crystalline. The air sang of grasses, and the sun slipped through leaves like a melody. Snow White gathered mushrooms, singing. Her voice was light and deep, like a lake reflecting the sky. Around her, forest creatures gathered—hedgehogs, squirrels, birds, even an old turtle from a nearby pond, drawn by her song.

Suddenly—there came pounding hoofbeats and heavy breathing. Two skinny fawns burst from the trees, panting, eyes filled with fear. “Snow White!” they squeaked, rushing forward. “It’s us… the boys. Not deer. We’re hiding.” She dropped to her knees, eyes wide. “Hiding? From whom?” “From the wicked stepmother…” one whispered.

“She wants us dead…” the other added softly. They spoke in a tremor, interrupting each other:

“We are the sons of King Mountain.”

“Our mother died in childbirth.”

“Our father remarried.”

“Our stepmother said she’d bear him puppies…”

“And we must be… replaced.”

“She ordered servants to take us into the forest and kill us. But they spared us.”

“They let us go, and we fled.”

“Then a doe took us in.”

“She fed us, sheltered us under grass and wood.”

“We grew up to the whispering wind and the scent of herbs.”

“And today… we heard your voice.”

“We stopped. It sounded like the sun.”

“And we remembered—we are children again.”

Snow White trembled as she took their small hands. “Oh, my poor ones,” she said softly. “Come. I will feed you, sing to you, comfort you.” The palace was humble—old, but bright. The kitchen smelled of nut bread, honey, and apples. She seated the boys by a window, served them porridge with cherry jam, and gave them herbal tea. “You are safe now,” she told them.

“And I will write to King Mountain. He must know.” “What if the letter reaches the stepmother…” the boys feared.

“Don’t worry,” Snow White reassured. “I’ll ask the Professor.” The moment she said his name, the wind burst into the courtyard. Leaves fluttered. A swirl of light formed, and out stepped Professor Shaggy. "You called?" he asked, adjusting his glasses.

"Ah," said Snow White, "we never properly said goodbye last time."

He flushed. "Forgive me. I felt your sorrow and disappeared. But now… I'm here." “We’re in trouble,” she told him, and explained everything. The Professor listened quietly, stroking his beard. “I will deliver the letter directly to King Mountain. Don’t worry. These boys… you will keep them safe until everything is settled.” He disappeared as suddenly as he had come—leaves rustled in his wake. On the windowsill lay a note:

“While truth travels, be kind. It already changes the world.” That evening, Snow White sang again. The fawns—now once more boys—slept on a soft blanket by the fire. Small animals snored nearby. Outside, the forest murmured:

“You sing—and the world breathes.

You listen—and the world heals.

You care—and that is already magic.”

Elsewhere, in a distant palace, King Mountain held Snow White’s letter. Tears filled his eyes as he rose, ready at last to search for his sons. The Royal Ball. On a forest clearing where lanterns glowed even at night and stars sang through the branches, a gong resonated—thin, silver—echoing across the fairy-tale realm. “An invitation,” Snow White whispered, opening the letter.

“Look—we’ve gotten one too!” exclaimed Cinderella, stepping from the time machine with her daughter and son in arms. “A royal ball?” asked the King, straightening his tie. “Will there be dancing?”

“Stories,” came a voice from nowhere. “And pies. And new fairytales. The whole kingdom is stirring. Fairies are steaming gowns. Animals are polishing boots. Chickadees rehearse fanfares.” The Professor, naturally, had invented a carpet to whisk latecomers to the palace just in time. Cinderella and Snow White walked the carpet path, hand in hand.

“Sometimes it feels like the fairytale has ended,” Cinderella whispered.

“But then we find each other—and it begins again,” Snow White smiled.

The palace was built inside the Story Mountain—tall, luminous, echoing with all the tales ever told. Guests had gathered:

Beauty & the Beast (now an art therapist and gardener)

The Little Mermaid (running a sea-school for young dreamers)

Rapunzel (founder of a haircare charity for girls)

Sleeping Beauty (an expert on sleep and mindful dreaming)

Red Riding Hood and her grandmother—traveling bloggers.

Each heroine was to share one story—not the childhood tale, but what happened after: “The truth of the story,” called the host, an elderly gnome in spectacles. “Snow White first,” announced the stage. She rose, hands trembling, but light filled her eyes. “When I awoke in a new world,” she began, “no one knew who I was. They didn’t recognize me. I washed dishes, looked for work, learned. But love stayed. And song stayed. I realized that every awakening is just the beginning.” The hall fell silent… then erupted in applause. Cinderella stood beside her.

“And I,” she said, “gave birth to twins, lead a battalion—and still search for my glass slipper. But I learned one thing: to say ‘no’ when others say ‘shush.’” Laughter. Joy. Celebration. The ball continued until dawn—not only with dance, desserts, and trumpets, but with truth. Each heroine revealed her real self—no longer fictional, but human. When Snow White returned home, she wrote in her journal:

“I am no longer afraid to wake up—

Because now I know that a fairytale is not what was,

But what we create each day.

With love. With song.

And maybe a drop of magic.”

A Mermaid’s Tale.

At the ball, lights reflected off crystal sea-necklaces, and the Little Mermaid rose from her seat. Tall, strong, eyes the color of surf, she stood beside Snow White and Cinderella. “You know my name. But tonight, I came to speak of her—my daughter. Her name is Watercolor.” “When my own story ended,” the Mermaid began, “I dove deep into the seas, choosing solitude, until I heard a song from within—a quiet, stubborn pearl in a shell. That song said: learn to love again. And there she was: Watercolor.” “I don’t know where she came from—perhaps from music, from my heart, from ocean foam and sun. But one day I woke holding her. She was different. She could live in water and on land. She painted with rain. Spoke to seagulls. Heard music in stones. And she asked too many questions.” “Mom, why did you stay silent when they said you must?

Mom, what if I don't want to be a princess?

Mom, why do you cry when you sing?” The Mermaid smiled with tears in her eyes. “My daughter didn’t want to be a story. She wanted to be a person, an animal, a wave, a melody. She says: ‘I am not part of your tale. I am the start of my own.’ “On her seventh birthday, I gave her a voice. A real voice—not kept in a shell, not hidden in a song. A voice that can say ‘no’ and ‘yes,’ that can shout or laugh or be silent when she wants.” “And do you know what she sang first? Not a ballad. Not an aria. Not a hymn. A silly, funny, sunny song about an octopus that loves to dance the rumba.” The audience laughed—even the gnomes. The Mermaid bowed. “That is our story. A mother learning again. Learning to be free. And teaching her daughter to do the same.” Silence fell, then applause erupted—Story Mountain itself echoed with ovation. Snow White hugged the Mermaid. “I want to meet Watercolor.”

“She’s painting a portrait of the wind on the beach,” the Mermaid smiled. “Come, she’ll show you.” From backstage someone whispered: “Next story… from Rapunzel.”

“Or maybe Red Riding Hood?”

“Or… someone you didn’t expect.”

Rapunzel. At the Queens’ Ball—where stories of Snow White, Cinderella, and the Mermaid had already been told—Rapunzel rose, her movements as gentle as dawn. Her hair was no longer the floor-length braid of legend. It was cropped short, like the breath of spring, adorned with tiny flowers—not for beauty, but simply because she wished it.

“I lived in a tower,” she began slowly. “For a long time. But the tower wasn’t only on the outside—it was inside me too.” Even after she descended, met the prince, and danced her first free step, she still lived within it. “Do you know what my walls were?” Words “You can’t do it… ” “The world is dangerous.” “Better not stand out.” “You’re too sensitive.” “Too loud.” “Too fragile.” “Too much you.” She paused—softly, like a step on dewy grass.

“One morning I woke up and told myself: ‘Too much’ is my magic. And if someone thinks I can’t do it, then it’s their fear, not mine. I cut my hair—not to hide, but so it could grow anew. I went to study. I opened a workshop fixing music boxes. I walked barefoot—even in winter. I wrote poetry that no one understood—and that was wonderful. I fell in love with someone who wasn’t a prince. A librarian, smelling of coffee and ink, who read aloud even while I slept. “I noticed… towers crumble not from kisses, but from steps—one after another. And if a tower remains within you—don’t fear. There’s already a door in it. You just haven’t found it yet.” In that moment, one of the orchestra’s princesses wept—then another—and applause swelled like wind. “Thank you,” whispered Snow White. “That was… needed.” “Each of us,” Cinderella smiled, “has lived in a tower. But we’re here. So, the path exists.” Little Red Riding Hood. With the applause still echoing, a girl in a red hood stepped forward. Though no longer a child, nor simply a granddaughter, she came slowly, placed a basket of pies, jam, and books on the stage, and said: “Everyone thinks I’m just the one who walks through the forest to Grandma’s. And that I must meet the wolf. But do you know what I learned?” The audience hushed. “Wolves exist not only in forests. They appear in the news. In private messages. In the voice inside your head: ‘You’re too slow.’ ‘You’ve lost your way again.’ ‘You’re worthless.’ “For a long time, I believed the forest was danger. But then Grandma said: ‘The forest is life. Walking through it is how you grow up.’

“A wolf once ate my grandmother. Then I ate a cloudberry pie. Life goes on—strangely enough. Now Grandma and I live together. She got a cat; I started a journal. The cat is named Dog—because he acts like one. I go to forest school and sometimes teach—‘How to tell a real wolf from a disguised one.’ Secret: wolves always speak loudly. You must learn to listen quieter.” The audience chuckled respectfully. “My main takeaway? It’s not scary to walk through the woods. It’s scary to always wait to be eaten. I wear my red hood not to be seen—but so I don't lose myself. Also, pies are here—if you want one. Just don’t be a wolf.” Laughter and applause filled the hall. Snow White winked. Cinderella dabbed her eyes. Rapunzel whispered: “She needs a cat.” The Snow Queen. A cool breeze swept through the hall; icicles on glass chandeliers tinkled; candles dimmed. And then—she entered. The Snow Queen, unhurried. Uns miling. Bringing dusk in her wake. She stood at the center, wearing no crown—only a sheer veil like frost on a window. “I was called cold because I didn’t burn. They labeled me emotionless. But I simply… did not glow.” “While you played at love, I played at silence. While you sent letters, I listened to snowflakes sing.” The hall fell silent—even the hearth’s fire dimmed. She continued: “Then a boy named Kai… removed the ice from my heart—and found me. I wasn’t a monster. I was his fear. His grief. Then I became his peace. Since then, I no longer live in a palace. I live on the northern shore. I grow ice roses, gather stars, bake cardamom cookies. Children come sledding—and none of them freeze.” She smiled—tender and true. “Cold can be home—if it holds warmth.” Snow White brushed away a tear. Red Riding Hood murmured: “I’d love to visit…” A young woman in a plum-colored coat stepped forward, eyes bright with hope. Gerda’s Call “I’m Gerda. I know how to find any lost soul. I founded a foundation—to protect the Arctic—and the Snow Queen—from warming, and from indifference. Because ice is melting. Not just in oceans—but in hearts. And that's even scarier. If you have ideas… to save winter, to defend the North, to cool foolishness and kindle care—write to me. A kind word, a project, a song.” She paused, addressing the hall: “Letters arrive by mail—my address: [email protected]. Or drop them in the wind—because I am a seeker.” The Snow Queen stepped forward, embraced her, and the hall filled with the dance of snow. A musician began playing a timeless winter melody.

After the Ball The music had faded.

Home. Silence and candlelight.

They sat side by side, warmed by the steam rising from their soup bowls.

The scent of fresh bread, roasted apples, and herbal tea wove gently through the air.

From the open window came the rustle of night—as if the fairy tale itself were breathing, just beneath the sill. Snow White sighed deeply, as though she were breathing in not air, but memory.

She slowly set down her spoon, looked at the King—her husband—into his eyes, filled with light,

and spoke softly, as if afraid to frighten the thought away: “I’ve been thinking… ever since the ball.

There’s this question I can’t shake.

What if… what if we tried again—

to live… for real?

In that world.

Where machines roar,

where life can be cold, and hard…

but also truly alive.” The King looked up from his cup and turned to her fully.

His smile didn’t come at once, but like dawn—slow, soft. “My dearest Snow White,

you speak the words that have been in my heart.

I wanted to say them too, but didn’t know how.

I love you not for your crown. Not for your past.

I love you because you are light.

And that is why we must go—

to where that light is needed.

To a world that is different.

Where there’s no throne for us,

but there is earth.

Work.

People.

Trials.

But also—

a future.” “And the fairy tale… won’t run away?” she asked quietly.

He took her hand and placed it on his heart. “You are the fairy tale. And you are with me.

So it stays—with me.

And home… our tale…

will wait for us.

Until we return stronger.

Without magic.

Without a castle.

Just us.” They sat in silence.

Only an owl outside called back to a distant dog.

Time held its breath. No past. No future.

Only this moment—warm as cinnamon and apple. Slowly, but surely, a decision began to grow inside them.

They didn’t cross into that world. Not yet.

But within… they had already stepped.

Because the greatest journey begins with agreement in the heart.

With one thought.

One breath.

Love.

Faith.

A dream.

A cup of tea by the fire. The music still lingered—

but only in a whisper.

Streetlamps glowed like candles.

The last dances swayed like shadows on the walls.

Snow White slipped off her shoe

and walked barefoot across the marble.

“We had a ball,” she whispered,

“but it wasn’t a night of gowns—

it was a night of truth.” Cinderella yawned, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I’d stay…” she said,

“but the children are asleep in the corner—

my daughter with a crown made of candy wrappers,

my son with a pastry in his hand.” The Snow Queen folded her veil into a tiny snowflake and murmured:

“Thank you… for giving me back my voice.

The winters may grow shorter—

but we will have light.” The Little Mermaid nodded:

“And we will have children

who know they can sing—

any way they wish.

And never be silent.” Gerda took out a small lamp.

Its flame was dim—but alive.

“We’ll carry it forward.

Not fireworks—

but the kind of fire that warms.” The Professor closed his notebook.

The cover was smudged with jam and moonlight.

“I’ve written it all down,” he said.

“And now… it’s time to let go.” And when the last queen stepped out of the palace,

the Mountain of Tales exhaled—just a little—

like a book closed

only to be reread tomorrow. And above the forest,

three stars lit up the sky:

“Memory”,

“Music”,

and

“To Be Continued…”

Chapter 4. First Audience

They did not arrive in this world empty-handed.

Thanks to friends from the enchanted ball, Snow White and the King returned not only with hope—but with a small chest of jewels.

Enough for a modest apartment, a few vocal lessons, and an old but loyal car. They studied.

Without shame. Without pretending.

Snow White held a microphone for the first time.

The King picked up a bass guitar, uncertain—

and suddenly… music woke in his fingers.

Not courtly.

Raw.

Street-bred.

True. In a tiny café, they sang as a duo.

The audience stood. Not clapping—just stood.

As if for an anthem. A video made it to TikTok.

By morning, they were invited to a local radio studio.

Their fame began to grow.

Not fast.

But bright. Reflection in the Mirror Meanwhile, in another realm…

The Mirror trembled ominously. “They’re alive? And… singing?”

whispered the Evil Queen, adjusting her VR glasses.

“This world is strange. But I see it too craves praise, success, and beauty.

Then I’ll find my place here.

And take my revenge.

Quietly. Like mercury.” She passed through the mirror.

In this world, she was known as Madame Zen.

First, she got a job at an ad agency.

Then—she opened her own PR firm.

Motto: “Beauty is power.” One day, sipping collagen coffee in her office,

she saw Snow White perform.

She smiled. “Sweet. Very sweet.

But let’s see how long you shine

once the shadows start to crawl…” Voice of the Streets They performed more and more—

in clubs, at street festivals,

on stages where no one hides their tears. Their songs were simple—

about honesty,

about work,

about childhood with a maple leaf in your pocket,

about the silence where breathing means more than speaking. They were not stars.

They were real. They were invited to a contest: The Voice of the Streets. But the day before the semi-final,

a doctored video spread online—

Snow White, laughing at her fans.

Fake. Edited.

Hate followed.

Comments flooded in. Doubt “Who did this?” she whispered, on the verge of tears.

The King held her.

“Not who,” he said. “What.”

“Envy. It always wears the mask of truth.

But you know who you are.

Let your voice be your answer.” Half-Light Backstage—buzzing.

Rehearsals. Tears.

Cold tea in paper cups.

Snow White stood in the half-light.

Just breathing.

Like in the forest.

Like then—when everything was still and crystalline. And then—

a voice.

Dry. Even.

As if dusted with mirror-silver. “You’re very… authentic,”

said Madame Zen,

her smile thinner than a blade,

sharper than a compliment.

“The public loves that.

But beauty, my dear, doesn’t last.

I could help you—some Botox, a new look…

You know what makes a star?” Snow White turned.

There was no armor in her eyes.

Only calm. “Thank you,” she said gently. No bitterness.

“But I don’t sing to be liked.

I sing to live.” Madame Zen tilted her head.

And for a flicker of a moment—

something real sparked in her gaze.

But it vanished. “Then you’ll lose,” she whispered.

And the shadow behind her stirred—

like a mirror in the dark. Snow White watched her leave.

Not with fear.

Not with defiance.

But with quiet truth. “Maybe…”

she whispered,

“but if I lose—then I lose singing.

And you?” The hall fell silent.

And somewhere, in the deepest shadow,

something trembled.

As if the mirror…

for the first time…

wanted

to shatter.

A Crownless Victory They didn’t win the contest.

There was applause…

But it wasn’t the loudest. Madame Zen left with the trophy,

and yet another “star” —

just like the one before. But someone in the crowd,

filming quietly on their phone,

uploaded a video.

That video—

where Snow White stood on stage

in a simple dress,

her voice trembling—

just slightly—

from nerves,

from truth,

from something still alive. The clip flew like a bird finally given air. People shared it with captions like:

“If only everyone sang like they were speaking to your soul.” And then the letters began to arrive.

From schools.

From shelters.

From hospices.

Come. Sing for us. Just because. So they went.

By subway.

By an old bus.

Sometimes, on foot.

They sang in gyms, in cafeterias, in echoing hallways.

Sometimes in a whisper,

sometimes with strength—

but always right to the heart. One evening, as they walked home in silence,

Snow White, wrapped in a scarf, said softly:

“You know… maybe fame isn’t the stage.

Maybe it’s when you’re needed.

Just like that.” The King smiled.

He looked forward,

through the window,

where streetlamps flickered—

like tiny crowns. “Then we are rulers,” he said.

“Of the only kingdom that matters.”

“The Kingdom of Kindness,” she whispered. And that night, their home smelled of mint, soap, and song.

A song without a microphone.

A song heard only by the heart. Mirror TV. The Evil Queen—now known as Madame Zen—

didn’t disappear into the shadows.

She mastered light instead—

studio light: harsh, soulless.

And launched her own talk show: “Mirror TV” —

style tips, beauty pageants,

relentless criticism.

The screen sparkled.

Makeup shimmered.

Guests looked like window displays.

Words struck like icy needles—

precise, but empty. In the dim corner of the studio hung that Mirror.

It had come with her.

Totem.

Servant.

Unsleeping watcher. It never stayed silent.

Each day, like a draft behind a curtain, it whispered: “She sings.”

“They love her.”

“And still… she hasn’t broken.” Madame Zen pretended not to hear.

But her fingers clenched the armrest.

And her eyes lingered too long

on the phrase “live performance.” Her show was a success—

but the kind that chills.

Ratings soared. But after every episode,

someone in the makeup room would cry.

Someone else would sit in silence too long.

And nearly everyone walked away

feeling like something had been taken—

gently, precisely—

like a light removed from the eyes. Beauty is a weapon.

But cold does not heal. Then came her new plan—

thin as a thread of silk: Invite Snow White.

Make her a host.

The symbol of authenticity.

To dress up the show…

…and then—

break her from the inside.

Slowly.

Sweetly.

With admiration. “She won’t even realize when she becomes my doll,”

thought Madame Zen,

staring into the Mirror. But the Mirror, trembling just slightly,

answered her with a reflection—

and in it, Snow White stood. Alive.

With a song.

With strength.

Too real

to become

a format. A Victory Without a Crown. The envelope was silver.

That morning, in a house that smelled of mint and fresh bread,

where birds, not breaking news, served as alarms—

a letter arrived.

The envelope shimmered silver.

The font looked engraved by moonlight.

But at the bottom—

a cold signature:

Madame Zen. Dear Snow White,

We are inspired by your sincerity.

We invite you to an exclusive talk show,

so the whole world may hear your story.

This is your chance to be heard in millions of homes. Silence fell.

The King set down his cup.

There was worry in his eyes.

– This isn’t a stage, he said. It’s a cage.

Sing—but not for them. Sing for the ones who hear you with their hearts. Snow White said nothing.

She looked out the window, where children were feeding pigeons.

She remembered the first time her voice trembled in a shelter—

how an old woman held her hand and cried. She exhaled.

– I’ll go, she said.

But not for fame.

Not for myself.

– Then for what? he asked.

She smiled. – To show that light does not fear mirrors.

That we shouldn’t wait for the stage—

we must carry it with us.

Into the dark. The King came to her, held her close.

In his chest beat not a royal heart—

but the heart of a companion.

A friend.

One who believes in the voice.

In the light. And outside, as if hearing them,

the wind turned a single page on the tree. Broadcast Day. Eyes Like Ice Backstage smelled of makeup and haste.

Plastic smiles. Cold coffee.

Words, stripped of taste.

The studio lights burned like interrogation.

And the Mirror—

it didn’t speak, but it breathed… anger.

Madame Zen sat still,

draped in silk, lines, calculation.

But her eyes—were ice.

Too clear to be alive. Snow White entered.

Her dress wasn’t designer.

It looked woven from morning dew.

No makeup.

Only her eyes—tired, but clear. Silence.

In the studio.

In the broadcast.

In their souls.

– You still believe in kindness?

Zen smirked.

– And you… still fear it?

Snow White replied—softly. No defiance.

As if asking about pain they both had lived. And then—

no interview.

A song instead. No backing track.

No effects.

Just voice—

not from her throat,

but from her wounds. A song about Evil—

that once was a girl.

About a girl who only wanted to be needed.

About Fear—

that learned to whisper. The words weren’t judgment—

they were forgiveness.

The song wasn’t defiance—

it was memory. The Mirror—

cracked.

Thinly. Almost soundlessly.

Like a heart remembering

it once could beat. Zen flinched.

Not from rage—

but from something…

living.

Forgotten. Silence.

Millions watching. But what filled the air

wasn’t noise—

it was tone.

A vibration between ribs. No one counted likes.

That song was not liked.

It was held.

And in the comments, they wrote: “I used to be afraid of not being needed too.”

“Thank you—for singing instead of shouting.” The Home of Living Voice Backstage,

the King waited. No flowers. No crown.

Just hot tea in a thermos. And when she returned,

he simply said:

– You didn’t return your voice to yourself—

you gave it back to the world.

The morning didn’t come with sunshine—

but with headlines: “She sang so deeply, the Mirror shattered.”

“Snow White restored the voice of love.”

“Madame Zen disappeared after the broadcast.” But there was no triumph.

No glitter.

No fanfare. Just quiet.

Like after a storm.

Like in a heart no longer at war. The Evil Queen left on her own.

Not exiled—

just faded.

The Mirror no longer showed her face.

It became just… glass.

No voice.

No power.

No whisper. Snow White Sat by the Window She was quiet for a long time.

Drinking cinnamon tea.

Then she said: – We can’t sing forever.

But we can teach others to breathe—

especially those who are afraid to. So began the Home of the Living Voice.

Not a school.

Not a stage.

A harbor. For those afraid to speak.

For those who’d been bullied—

online and in life.

For girls who no longer wanted to be pretty.

For boys who hurt from being too strong. There, they learned to stay silent—

and not explode.

To speak—without screaming.

To sing—without needing likes.

To cry—without shame. And most often, one phrase was heard: “I’m not an artist.”

“But I can be real.”

And that… is enough. The King never became director.

He made cocoa.

Repaired microphones.

And held those

who’d forgotten what it felt like—

to be heard. Snow White…

rarely sang. But when she did—

even the birds in the garden

would fall silent. Because in her voice

there was no I—

only We. We’re Waiting for You After a small charity concert—

in a half-empty old theater,

where the curtain smelled of dust and tired light—

Snow White heard something. Not applause.

Not thank you.

But a song. Soft. From the side.

From an alleyway.

As if the world had accidentally

put on a forgotten vinyl

and never turned it off. She listened. The sound was fragile—

like walking on April ice. She followed it.

And saw: On the steps—

a boy.

Thin.

Drowning in an oversized coat.

His hood too big to see his face.

On his knees—an old tin can.

At the bottom—one dried pink candy. And he… was singing.

Off-key.

Unsteady.

But in that voice—

a crack in the ancient world.

Like the way rain sings when it’s in pain.

Like trees,

when no one’s listening. – Who taught you to sing? Snow White asked. He shrugged.

– No one.

I just listened… to rain falling.

To cats on rooftops.

To the old woman next door grumbling—