Standing on the edge of the clearing, Pyotr Stamatin sighs with a quiet awe that nears on childlike in its simplicity. He fears to step past that invisible boundary; surely his presence would be taken as nothing more or less than unwanted intrusion?

He used to know a girl with white hair, who'd sing to his paintings at night. To soothe their spirits, she said. He'd opened every window in the flat, scraping away layers of calcified paint when necessary, so she'd get fresh air and daylight. Sometimes, when the wind blew just the right way, she said she could hear the bone chimes in the graveyard, and then she'd sit in the window and hum ever so softly...

"Little miss?" he calls out softly, trying not to startle her. "May I speak with you?"