the legend of Volnyk

Once upon a time, there was a man whom no one saw coming, yet everyone seemed to know. His name was not etched in stone, not written on parchment, nor whispered by merchants. They called him Volnyk, the Wayfarer, the one who never lingered, yet had been everywhere.

His tracks led through the Carpathians, where the wind carried stories from forgotten times, across the vast steppes where Cossacks once rode their horses, and through cities where golden domes gleamed in the sunlight. No home held him, no fire bound him, and yet he was always welcomed by those who opened their doors to strangers, whose hearts longed for freedom.

It was said that he came from a distant time, an era when men were measured not by their names, but by their deeds. They whispered that he had fought—not for a crown or a throne, but for something invisible, something that could not be bought with gold. A promise, perhaps, a vow not recorded on paper but given in the stillness of the night.

No one knew whether he was a warrior or a sage, a lost soul or one who had been found. His clothing was woven for those who did not settle—a cloak, light enough for the heat of the day, firm enough for the cold of the night; trousers made for both the streets of Lviv and the rocky paths of the Bukovina mountains. In his pockets, he carried not gold, but stories; not weapons, but memories.

In the taverns of Kyiv, they whispered that he had once known love, yet fate does not grant everyone the chance to hold on to happiness. Others said he was the last of his kind, one who does not forget what others have long left behind. Yet those who asked him received only a smile—the kind that tells more than words ever could.

And so he moved on, step by step, through streets he would never see again, past people who might remember him long after he was gone. He left behind nothing but a feeling—a longing for more, for freedom, for the chance to walk one’s own path, wherever it may lead.

Once upon a time, there was a man named Volnyk, but he was not alone. For whoever has felt the wind on their face and could not bear the weight of chains carries his legacy forward.

And perhaps, if you look up on a cold night and listen to the stars, you will hear him walking—not far away, but right where dreams begin.