It was late autumn. Long fallen leaves crunched underfoot, and from time to time a fine snow could fall on your head. The atmosphere was gloomy and even more fueled by the constant cloud cover and the distant cries of hungry carrion crows.

Walking along the dilapidated iron cemetery fence, an unpleasant but not unusual sound reached your ears, which involuntarily gave you goosebumps.

Looking sideways in that direction, you noticed how a tall man in black clothes was digging a grave with the zeal of a workaholic, while on the neighboring tombstones, crows, like spectators, patiently awaited the approaching feast.