At the edge of the village there’s a house—old, withered, almost falling apart. And everyone обходить it—like they’re afraid of something. Indeed, that decaying little hut smells with bitterness and sadness from a mile away, the way it happens when too much human grief has occurred in that place… The fragile skeleton of the hut, from bottom to top, has grown over with village rumors. And I, passing by it in the evenings more than once, keep asking myself the same question, looking into the blind, black gaps of the window openings—what happened here, really?..