An old wooden house stands amidst a row of old pine trees grouped together, guarding the house. The biggest of the pine trees stands right in front of the house, its roots erupting from the ground as if wanting to prevent anyone from getting in or out. The old stairs lead up to a wooden door, darkened by the many years of servitude. Paint is chipping and falls away from the stairs, creating a blanket of red and brown underneath the stairs. A dog barks in the distance and a rooster from a nearby house answers with a shrilling shriek, which hangs in the air moments after the rooster has calmed down. The sun plays with the leaves that have escaped from the nearby birch tree. The slightly rotting leaves tickle the air, mixing in with the aroma from the cherry and apple trees. The clouds are gone; not a trace of white in the sky, but the lingering smell of the night’s rain is still there. The grass is still weighed down by the morning dew and the light rain. The green grass blades bend under the pressure, arching out their backs as if trying to hold to the last of the water droplets. A kitten goes walking in the garden, careful not to step onto the cool grass. He soon learns that the grass is wet everywhere and returns back to his sunlit porch. The big pine trees are popular with the squirrels, which spend most of the day jumping from one branch to the other. They fly through the air with their red tails spreading out behind them like parachutes. The dog barks again, waking the kitten from his dreams. He rolls over whimpering something to himself, but soon retreats back to the world of dreams. The house is quite. The only sound that penetrates the silence is the rhythmic ticking of the old grandfather clock. The inhabitants of the house are nowhere to be seen, away on the daily tasks of life.