An early morning. Outside it is dark, as in the abyss, only the light of one small lamp illuminates the path of the tired wanderer. Snowing. Light and large flakes slowly and evenly cover the ground. And silence. Dead silence. Only a quiet crunch of snow under the feet of a wayfarer breaks it.

He walked all the way and thought about the frailty of his being. Thought about whether he made the right choice when he decided to visit that place every day. Thought about how much he lived and how much he lost, no matter how young he was. Thought that the whole past was done in vain, even if he knew it wasn't true. Millions, no, billions of thoughts revolved in his head, one overtook the other and so on constantly. In the end, he did not complete any of these thoughts, as there was no point in it.

With hands, that were cold, as an ice, he held the lamp and walked forward. But he did not shiver. He was too strong to bend under the pressure of the cold. As I already said, the wanderer lost too much and saw too much to be frightened by some kind of cold. Colds can be cured. But losses can not be cured.

He saw nothing in front of him except the light of the lamp and his own legs. He heard only the crunch of snow and the howling of wolves in the forest to his right. But the most deafening were his thoughts: plunging into them, he no longer heard anything.

I don’t even remember how this man looked. Life too often changed him, too often forced him to adapt. Recently, he’s just tired of it, and he decided to bend his life for himself. Did it work out? Who knows.

Finally he came. A fenced plot of land on which there was nothing but a large, ancient apple tree, which, according to local legends, has been over a thousand years old. True or not, it doesn’t matter. But he saw it like that even when he was born, was a child, a youth, when he was growing up. It was always unchanged. A huge tree, blooming every year and giving the most juicy apples, probably on all this mortal earth, and covered with white colors in the winter. "White Orchard", as he called this place, because most of all he remembered it at this time.

He found a small pile of soil near a tree. He sat on his knees, interlocked his fingers, and sat like that for a couple of hours until the sun began to appear over the horizon.

After this small rite, he laid a large apple from this tree and a white rose, smelling so pleasantly and astringently, as if it had just been picked from the garden. He also left a candle and a letter there. This way he gave the last honors to his hope for happiness in this world.

He buried his happiness and his love here. In the "White Orchard". Under the ancient apple tree.

The tree died a year later, exactly on the day when the wanderer died.

The lifeless body of this man was found in his own house. He was lying in bed and was clutching with his already ice cold fingers a drawing of a girl. He died of cardiac arrest.

He was buried in the "White Orchard".