His ancestors' house had been built in 1177, on the place of a well gone dry. A hidden descent into darkness. Centuries later, the communists confiscated the house. Years after that, here he is, climbing to the attic.

Broken windows, ghostly walls, birds' nests — pigeons fly out with fast beating wings. One bird stays behind unafraid. Grey feathers, a white halo, eyes in his. Its feet are resting on some papers written in green ink. Faded.

He holds out his hand and slowly pulls the papers towards him. The bird breathes deeply. Both of them on this side of the wall.

No touch.

Just the sign.

Here it was and is no more.