Waldemar and the Dragonfly Workshop

More about Waldemar and the Dragonfly Workshop

Morning still hung in silvery threads between the trees as Waldemar descended the narrow path, where the light flowed like liquid dew. Above him, the air hummed, not loudly, but shimmeringly—a sound of wings, barely audible, but noticeable in his ears. He stopped, lifted his red hat slightly, and blinked. Something glittered where a branch jutted over a still pool: tiny gears of light, moving to the rhythm of the wind. Waldemar approached, and among the stalks, he recognized what had at first seemed like a will-o'-the-wisp—a workshop, so small that a mushroom would have sufficed for a roof, yet bustling with activity. Dragonflies, delicate as gemstones, flitted among tools made of spider webs and amber drops. One was stringing a dewdrop onto a stalk as if it were a watch glass; Another was filing a tiny wheel made of frozen morning dew, rotating in the light. Waldemar held his breath so that no gust of wind would disturb her work. The humming of the wings was the sound of many clocks at once—each ticking with a different heartbeat. "A hiker with heavy boots," called one of the dragonflies without looking up. "Be careful, you're bringing shadows with you!" "Just a small one," Waldemar answered kindly, "I don't want to disturb anything. I only heard the singing." Then the dragonfly perched on a fern, looked at him with eyes that shimmered in all colors, and said: "You hear the singing because you still take the forest seriously. Come closer, but only tread where the moss shines." Waldemar followed her words, placing one foot in front of the other until he stood before a root on which tiny clockworks sparkled. They were made of drops, feathers, and light, each different, each alive. "We build time that passes without passing," explained the dragonfly. "When a drop falls, it carries a memory. We catch it before it breaks and give it form." "And for what?" Waldemar asked quietly. "So that the world knows that even the fleeting can endure." Another dragonfly, its wings bending the light into silver spirals, flew over. It carried a small glass wheel and carefully secured it in a case made of flower fragments. "Sometimes we build for hikers who forget that they can marvel," it said, "but only if they don't ask how much it costs." "Then I guess I'm a rare customer," Waldemar smiled. "I prefer to ask what I can leave behind." The dragonflies laughed, a sound like rain on glass. "Leave us your haste," they begged. "We need it for fuel." They flew open, and Waldemar felt something light fall from his shoulders, barely noticeable, but real—a residue of the urge that had accompanied him for days. The hum of the workshop changed; the gears turned more slowly, the drops sparkled more deeply. "You have one more hour now," whispered the dragonfly. "But use it well, for it belongs to the one who fills it with mindfulness."