"A black Raven flew past me with a twig in its beak, and the extinguished flame in the time-darkened fireplace flared up brightly, greedily gnawing at the thin dry branches. Another minute and the candles in their ornate sconces, darkened and broken in places, filled the room with a flickering orange-red light. When this light illuminated the room, I looked at my left hand and was surprised to see that there were no burns on it. There was nothing wrong with Nestor's gift, either. A delicate pink rose glittered unharmed in a delicate gold ring.
"It's a cold November this year," I said, moving closer to the fire.
Nestor didn't sit next to me. He stood with his back half turned to me and stared at the round dial of the elaborate but broken mantel clock. Roman numerals were black under the curved, zigzagged glass. The hands of the clock did not move.
"November never ends here. There is no summer or spring here, " Nestor said grimly, and slowly turned his gaze to me.
– Has it always been like this?" I asked.
"No, not always," said Nestor, pausing at the window, and speaking with a sort of hopeless longing of the distant, irrevocable past. – There was a time when the sun, like a loving mother, caressed this land, when the ravines were emerald with juicy and fresh grass, and tall Apple and cherry trees grew around the estate. In may, tender petals rained down from the trees, and in summer, ripe, juicy fruits fell to the ground. I also remember a clear, round pond where white swans swam. Now it has become a rotten swamp. And no sunbeam dares to touch this dead earth