Just as we pass the monument and drift further away from the city, we recognize this house where the snow gets heavier, the road gets thinner, and a convoy of trailer trucks are on the wait. We stop to take a look at the wool socks the old woman is selling and make it in by her invitation. She withdraws to her corner and starts to knit. I stare at her hands washed by the light coming from the dirty window. A pot of gray water boils on the stove. Someone calls out from the other room, and soon a younger man appears at the door. Approaching us he tries to put on an undershirt without breaking the unlit cigarette in his mouth. He shows me the open scar on his nose. We try to communicate. He wonders where we are coming from. Pointing at his scar again, he utters something that I don’t understand. He appreciates the brand of cigarettes I offer him. The smoke diffuses in the subdued room. As we get ready to leave, he halts us and starts filling my pockets with walnuts and spongy apples that lie on the table. At that interval, I recognize the lighter resting next to the fruits. I reach out to take it, but he prowls faster. Tapping his chest with what he just got hold of, he smiles at me proudly. I smile at him too but the idea of all the unlit cigarettes spread on our way upsets me. Outside, as I search for the key among the apples, my hand runs across the lighter I had just left behind. I finally realize when we are on the road again, emerging out of that room in this distant land, he was in fact, carrying an almost impossible replica of this personal item in his hand.