It was a dark and bleak December, still or again, no one could tell. The only light in a small chamber was the slowly dying fire in the fireplace. People with terrible countenances stared from fading paintings on the walls covered in thick layer of dust. There was a strange feeling of emptiness in the room – no smells or sounds, everything seemed lifeless. Even deep winter seemed numb. The man was quietly sitting in his old and squeaking armchair and staring somewhere or nowhere with empty eyes. His gaze followed above the door, where on the bust of the Greek goddess Pallas sat the raven. Not moving, not making a sound.
The man‘s lips seemed like quivering, but with a better look you could see they were unnoticeably moving, like whispering
The man‘s lips seemed like quivering, but with a better look you could see they were unnoticeably moving, like whispering