“...The father died at midnight, and rose again before dawn, at the hour of morning twilight. When I woke up, he was sitting at the kitchen table - small, thin, tightly covered with skin, with sparse hair and large ears, which seemed to have become even larger in death. There was a cup in front of him - empty, for the dead do not eat or drink. I crumbled black bread into a plate, poured it with yesterday’s milk and sat down opposite. “What are you doing, father?” – I asked him, but he didn’t answer, he just shook his head. The dead do not speak - this is the law of the Forest..."