Think, Dream And Discover With Digital Storytelling

2023-1-PL01-KA210-SCH-000159494

In the quiet attic of an old red-brick house near the market square of Toruń lived a small, wise owl named Threads. Her wings were soft and silent, perfect for flying unnoticed through the night sky. Threads wasn’t an ordinary owl—she loved stories more than anything.

Every evening, when the city lights began to glow and the stars

 peeked out from the sky, she flew across the rooftops, listening to

 people’s voices and collecting tales from long ago.

One of her favourite places was the Town Hall. It stood proudly in the centre of the square, surrounded by cosy cafés, little shops, and cheerful people. But what Threads liked most was the statue standing nearby—a statue of a donkey made of bronze. Every day, children climbed onto its back, people posed for pictures, and tourists asked questions about it.

One warm evening, Threads sat on top of a glowing streetlamp right next to the donkey. Below her, a family had gathered. An old man was pointing at the statue, telling a story to his two curious grandchildren.

“A long, long time ago in Toruń,” he said, “people who broke the law had to sit on a very uncomfortable wooden donkey. It had a sharp back, and it hurt if you sat on it for too long. It was a way to punish thieves and teach them a lesson—to be honest and fair.”

The little boy wrinkled his nose. “That sounds painful!”

The grandfather nodded. “It was. But it worked. And now, this donkey is no longer a punishment. It is a symbol of honesty and a reminder of our city’s past.”

Threads tilted her head and blinked. “That’s a story worth remembering,” she thought.

Just as she was about to fly off, a sweet smell floated through the air. It was warm, rich, and spicy—the smell of freshly baked gingerbread.

“Mmm... pierniki!” Threads hooted happily. She followed the scent through the quiet streets until she reached a small bakery with golden light glowing through its windows. Peeking inside, she saw rows of cookies shaped like hearts, stars, angels, and animals, all warm from the oven.

Behind the counter stood a kind-looking baker, holding a tray of gingerbread in his hands. A little girl stood beside him, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Is this the real Toruń gingerbread?” she asked.

The baker smiled. “Yes, it is. Toruń gingerbread is famous all over the world. We make it using a recipe that is hundreds of years old. We mix honey, flour, and special spices—cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and nutmeg. The taste hasn’t changed since medieval times.”

The girl took a bite and smiled. “It’s perfect.”