Tarás got a brand-new bicycle. It was bright red, with a shiny bell on the handlebars.
"I'm Boris," said the bicycle in a quiet voice, when everyone had left the yard.
Tarás jumped in surprise. "You can talk?"
"Only to those who listen," Boris replied. "I can see you're afraid to get on."
Tarás blushed. It was true. That morning he had walked up to the bicycle three times, but each time he imagined falling and scraping his knees.
"You see, I've never…" the boy began.
"I used to be a circus bicycle," Boris interrupted. "I rode on a tightrope under the big top. I fell every day. Sometimes ten times in one practice."
"What did you do?"
"I got back up. Because otherwise I'd never learn."
Tarás ran his hand along the red frame. "Weren't you scared?"
"Yes. But you know what I noticed? The first fall is the scariest. After that you realize—it's no big deal. It hurts a little, and you feel silly, but you get up and that's that."
The boy took hold of the handlebars. "What if I fall right now?"
"Then you'll get back up. I'll fall too—bicycles always fall with their friends. I don't mind."
Tarás climbed onto the seat. His heart was pounding.
"Hold on tight, but don't tense up," Boris advised. "Pedal, and I'll help."
The first few meters were wobbly. Then Tarás wobbled and tumbled onto the grass, the bicycle on top of him.
"Oof," the boy said.
"So, you fell," Boris said calmly. "Does it hurt?"
"A little."
"Are you scared now?"
"No," Tarás said in surprise.
He got up, picked up Boris, and sat back down. This time he rode five meters. Then seven. Then he lost count—he was just riding.
That evening, as Tarás put Boris in the hallway, the bicycle whispered, "See? The hardest part is the first time."
The boy smiled and laid his hand on the handlebars. "Thank you, Boris."
The bicycle didn't answer—he only spoke when it was truly needed. But Tarás knew that tomorrow they would ride again. And even if he fell, he would just get back up.
In the dark hallway, the bell gave a soft ding—probably Boris smiling.