The fear was right there, in the way this man lit one cigarette after another, as if he has to fill the room with this smoke, so he could watch the outside enveloped in this haze. So that nobody from the outside could see him, hear him even. He showed me his work. He had been photographing the unmarked graves. There is a shirt hung on a tree. Through the seasons, the moss, the snow, the rain and the sun have left their scars on the shirt of the person who lies buried. Nobody knows whose body it is. For the gravedigger, he said, it must be sad to be digging so much. As a mark of respect, the gravedigger hung a shirt or anything else that he found on the body as a marker. And then, the trees took these in. A merger happened.