During the war I visit some relations in the country. The privations of living for years in a battle zone have hit them hard, and although the war is nearly over they remain locked into the habits of the frightened.
After a frugal meal of potato soup, I am invited to look round the smallholding that surrounds their scarred house. Oddly, in each paddock is a smaller fenced area, sometimes one, sometimes five or six. Puzzled, I ask why they are there.
The reason is simple; each small fenced area represents an animal that has long been eaten. The fences are there to remind my relatives of the livestock they once had. I peer closer, and on each there is a small label - goat, horse, cow. Numbly shaking my head, I walk back to the house.
We speak in hushed tones, discussing the war and the friends we have lost. As dusk falls, a single candle is lit.
The world outside is almost silent, and I have an eerie feeling that we are drifting alone, surrounded by sussurating space.