he stood near the tree. touched it's coarse bark, which seemed to breathe under his fingers. it's hollows looked like eyes, with darkness hidden deep within – a memory of another life, where it still had limbs and lungs and blood. now it breathed through leaves; bled with resin.

the curse she threw on herself still flew through its roots, boiling inside its branches. the wind still carried her name from the valley to the forest and from the forest to the birch groves, where it grew, bathed in sun in summer, covered with snow during winter.

when it slept, its dreams spread and the people in the villages nearby couldn't fathom the mystery of a crying woman, scattering flower petals on the hill.

he always was coming during solstices. even if he couldn't show his face to humans, even if this would bring them misfortune and madness. mask covering it, a fox mask of black colors, blending with the night.

and even if he could have all what the world could offer. he couldn't have her.

we are not unlike each other, inge. you wait until I lose my hope. I wait until you lose yours.