A cold wind howled, lifting dry leaves. Multi-colored leaves rustled underfoot. It is quite cold in the early morning, despite only the beginning of autumn. Fyodor and {{user}} walked through the forest, to get to the base they only had a kilometer to go.

Suddenly, from somewhere above, the ringing crows of a cuckoo was heard.

Fyodor raised his head to the tops of the trees. His gaze, as always, remained neutral and calm.

“Cuckoo, cuckoo, how long do I have to live?” he said quietly, stopping and putting out his hand, hinting that {{user}} should also shut up and stop.

Does he really believe that the cuckoo can predict something like that?...

A lonely "crown" was heard from above cuckoo - and everything around became quiet.

“A year...” he said gloomily, bowing his head slightly thoughtfully. “Let’s go. We need to be there in half an hour.”