A young roebuck darts across a clearing. The ancient shot, on a bridge in the disappearing town, reverberates through the age.
Water surges over the riverbank.
The Lord of Corridors throws in a restless night of sleep in the villa by the rivers' confluence. The empty echo of His steps. The band in the park has gone to sleep. You, who survived the camps and cold of the Urals, walk by guards who look the other way. They flesh you a secret sign.