In a small village near the hills, there was a little white house. It had blue windows, a garden full of daisies, and an old apple tree in the front yard. In that house lived a girl named Lily with her grandfather, Mr. Thomas.
Lily was 14 years old. Her parents had died in a road accident when she was six. Since then, her grandfather took care of her. He was a quiet man who loved tea, books, and birds.
Every morning, Lily sat by the window. She could see the hills from there. The sky was big, the clouds soft, and sometimes a bird flew close to the window as if saying hello.
Lily loved to draw. She didn’t have many colours, but she used a pencil to sketch the trees, birds, and the hills. She dreamed of becoming an artist, but never said it aloud.
“Why don’t you go play with the other children?” Grandpa Thomas asked one day.
Lily shook her head. “They laugh at me, Grandpa. They say I’m too quiet.”
Mr. Thomas smiled. “Quiet people see more. You see the world through your heart, Lily. That is a gift.”
That night, the wind was strong. A storm came. Branches hit the windows, and the apple tree bent low. In the morning, the garden was full of leaves, and the old tree had lost many apples.
Lily and her grandfather cleaned the garden. As they worked, a stranger came down the road. He wore a brown coat, had a kind smile, and carried a big bag.
“Good morning,” the man said. “I’m lost. May I ask for some water?”
Mr. Thomas welcomed him. “Of course. Come in and rest.”
The man sat on the bench under the apple tree. Lily gave him water and looked at his big bag.
“Are you a traveler?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” he said. “And a painter. I travel and paint what I see.”
Lily’s eyes lit up. “A painter?”
“Yes. I paint mountains, rivers, trees… everything that tells a story.”
Lily ran inside and brought her sketchbook. “I like to draw too,” she said, shyly.
The man looked at her sketches. His eyes grew wide.
“These are beautiful,” he said. “Very soft, very real.”
Lily blushed. “I only use a pencil.”
“You don’t need colours to paint the heart,” he replied.
The traveler stayed for tea. Before leaving, he gave Lily a small box of watercolors.
“Try these,” he said. “Your hills deserve colour.”
He walked away, whistling, down the hill path.
Weeks passed. Lily began painting with the new colours. The hills in her window turned blue, green, and gold on paper. She painted the apple tree, the birds, and her grandfather reading in the sun.
One day, Mr. Thomas sent a letter to a local art school with Lily’s paintings. He didn’t tell her. He just wanted to try.
A month later, a letter came. Lily read it and cried.
The letter said:
“Dear Miss Lily,
We have seen your art. We are very touched.
We would like to give you a full scholarship to study painting at our school.
Please come.”
Lily looked at her grandfather. “You sent my drawings?”
He smiled. “You see the world with love, Lily. People need that.”
She hugged him tightly.
Years Later
Lily is now a grown woman. She paints big pictures for books and homes. She travels to schools to teach children how to draw what they feel.
But every year, she comes back to the little white house, to the window by the hill.
The apple tree is old now, but still gives sweet fruit. And Mr. Thomas, with silver hair and a soft voice, still drinks tea and watches the sky.
Lily sits by the window with her sketchbook, just like she did as a child.
And sometimes, when the sun sets and the wind are quiet, a bird comes near the window—just to say hello.
Moral of the Story:
Everyone sees the world in their own way. Quiet dreams are still powerful. All they need is a little belief and a helping hand. Even the smallest window can open to a beautiful future.
