The air was crisp. It was winter, but not like any other winter I had ever witnessed. It was the winter of ghosts. They came into the houses of the small town by the river's edge, they sat at the dinner tables, they looked gloomy and rarely uttered a word; but sometimes they did, and people would share with them the little that they had, hoping that by dawn the ghosts would leave never to return. Then in the village came the dream doctor of Macedonia, weary of time, the years he lived, the roads he had travelled. He sat alone in a table in the only restaurant, by the church, under the starry sky, in the crisp winter air. He ordered dinner. The ghosts gathered around him and he spoke with them for hours, and days. The doctor's voice was as low and the ghosts'. Less than a whisper. Lighter than light. And then night came once more, and nothing was the same again.
