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.