Most of them were always passing away in the Autumn. When they were dying, nurses were opening the windows, as if the soul did not know any other way, but only this one – through the old, cobwebbed sanatorium’s door-frame. Sometimes birds were bursting into the room through opened windows – dozens of them were sitting on white closets, entangled into the drips or were falling asleep amongst cold and matted patients’ arms. Birds are silent in that region. Their presence can be only displayed by the rustle of feathers and soft treading amongst souls passing through the windows.