Look out the window.

There's a yellow ribbon tied to one of the branches -- light yellow, faded with time. A tiny splash of colour in the blackness of the thicket. Hanging from it -- a bronze key.

Nothing. Just black tangles like the hair of an old woman. Motionless. The wind in the yard doesn't reach the hawthorn, nor does the light come in from this window.

Nothing, as always. By now you're almost certain there may be a sparrow's nest on one of the branches.

Nothing, as before. Just black branches.