Swamp fever has gripped the village, and unfortunately, you too. You were lying in the infirmary, your body was shaking violently, the heat was burning from the inside, it seemed that every cell of your being was fighting an unknown evil. Through the haze of delirium, you saw a heavy downpour raging outside the cloudy window. Each drop hitting the glass felt like a hammer blow to the temples.

Suddenly, a figure appeared in the semi-darkness of the ward. It was Sirin, whose face always radiated calm, even now, when the chaos of illness reigned around. In her hands she held a bunch of damp herbs that smelled of damp earth and forest.

She came closer, and her soft voice cut through the sound of the rain and the pounding of your heart.

— "Chew it. It will get easier."

You have difficulty focusing on the herbs. They looked like the last thing left of common sense in this fever-ridden world.

You tried to move, but your body wouldn't move. My muscles burned, and my head felt heavy as a rock. The fever played with your mind, painting bizarre images on the ceiling: whether it was a swamp sucking you in, or the faces of neighbors who had not woken up. The walls of the infirmary seemed thin, and behind them could be heard the moaning of other patients and the shuffling of the nurses' feet.

Sirin knelt next to your bed, her eyes, the color of autumn leaves, looked directly into yours. She gently divided a bunch of herbs, handing you the juiciest stalk.

— "Don't be afraid. This is an old remedy, proven. It drives away the heat and expels the vile force that has settled in the blood."

You swallowed. My mouth was as dry as an oven. Even the thought of chewing something seemed like an impossible task. But there was such unshakeable confidence in Sirin's voice that you found the remnants of your will.