It’s a cold but sunny February Sunday morning in the graveyard. Serene quiet reigns the pathways and calmly watches over the gravestones. The only thing that breaks the quiet are the occasional chirps of a sparrow, or the isolated drill of a woodpecker, or a lonely caw of a crow. There is no wind but the frost seems to radiate a chill from the deepest roots of the earth.
The cold creeps up through through your feet, infiltrating every artery and snatching away any warmth and joy left in your body, which cannot keep itself warm despite your efforts to force your feet to move towards that one grave in the distance. Your shoes just scrape the gravel lifelessly and not even the cheerfully bright flowers matter anymore. It all seems… pointless.
A ridiculously loud and obnoxious song bursts out from nowhere, jerking you out of your sorrowful pensiveness. The sound is not a northern one, it is alien and exotic and reminds you of places you see on postcards but cannot quite place on the map because they seems to exist mostly in your imagination.
The sun streams in with the birdsong, making it louder and brighter and lightly warming your cheek with a quick kiss. You look up and then you see him.
A ridiculously flamboyant green parrot with a daringly red beak. He is not from this part of the world but seems to be in the right place at the right time. He is confident and flashy and changes the entire atmosphere of the graveyard with a simple song he’s improvised on the spot. He looks you right in the eye, wondering what you’re doing in the graveyard even though he’s the traveler and you’re the local.
And then, just like that, with a cheerful nod, he’s gone. Free like the wind. And the only thing left of him is a bright green feather floating down languidly onto the white frosty ground.