"The poet accepted."
"He completed the registration the next month, the only additional condition being that he would 'continue to stay on the island.'"
"After three months of negotiations, the Foundation retrieved the exhibited manuscripts from the authorities."
"But the poet never returned to take them."
"The original copies are currently housed in the Far East branch of the Foundation library. Copies are also available for reference at other branches."
Sonetto: The library ...
Sonetto: I'll go check there in a bit.
She leafs through to the end of the file. There is only a half-blank page and the hard back cover.
Scrawled in the margin is an almost imperceptible signature.
зима
Sonetto: ... But before I go, there's one more thing I have to do.
The sky is brightening as the morning mist clears. Platinum awnings dot the beach.
In the distance, a heavy barge from Amur is outlined against the shore.
Magnificent, yet small. It bobs like an iceberg floating in the sea.
Зима: ... The ship is here.
Зима stands on the dock, surveying the scene as he did when he first set foot on the island.
The chickadee by his ear chirps a question, and he answers.
Зима: I still ... don't know.
Зима: Perhaps I should go to the Foundation.
Зима: Just like they said ...
Зима: There are many people ... like me there.
Зима: I can write poems and forget all about the wilderness, fires, sickness, and hunger ...
Зима: I won't be bothered by those people.
Зима: It'll be like ... heaven.
Зима: I just need to board the ship.
Зима: Do you understand?
The chickadee sings a poem, which fails to answer the question.
A fleeting smile crosses Зима's face.
Зима: ... You understand.
Зима: But ...
Зима: Here, the sun and moon are eternal.
Зима: Eternal stones, walnut shells, parchment, and ...
Зима: ... all of you.
Зима: …
Зима: The joys of heaven are too vast and too remote ...
Зима: …
Зима: Let's go back.
The corridor leading to the library is as empty as it was when she left.
Sonetto: Mr. Зима is usually here at this hour ...
Sonetto: I hope he didn't change his plans.
Sonetto gently knocks on the half-open door.
Sonetto: ... Mr. Зима?
The only response is the chirping of a chickadee.
зима is indeed there, along with a scroll of parchment and a bottle containing a strip of paper.
Sonetto: That's the parchment I took out earlier.
Sonetto: And ... a bottle? There's a paper inside. Is it for me?
зима gives an earnest nod.
Sonetto: Okay. I'm going to open it.
Sonetto: "—Please—read—"
Sonetto: Huh? Please read what?
She looks up. зима has already unfolded the parchment on the table with its beak.
Sonetto: ... Ah.
Of course, a poet would present a poem.
Poetry can give voice to the dead.
Poetry can be a prophecy or simply an expression of one's thoughts and emotions.
In one hundred feet of snow,
A dead branch a quill will be, sufficient
To write about the moon's passage both night and day;
To write about the frosted needles caught in treetops, the sound of the wind;
To write about the nothingness of night and the all-embracing sea.
They light a bonfire,
Crackling, flickering,
And before the fire leaves their eyes, they sing,
What did you see?
The rocks do not reply,
But a young voice says,
"Humanity."
зима's small, distinct black claw marks are stamped on the corner of the parchment.
A budding sprout, the branching veins of a leaf, ...
The two signatures form a journey that has never been taken.
