"Canta cucu, bata-l vina," Ion muttered into his pillow, quoting the old folk song. Cuckoo bird, may its fault be cursed.
Every morning at five, the bird would perch on the old oak branch outside his window and belt out its repetitive song. It was the rhythm of his life, but today, Ion wasn’t in the mood. He had spent the previous night fixing a broken fence under a pale moon, and his bones felt like lead. Cover Canta alarma (Canta cucu bata-l vina)
Curiosity overrode his exhaustion. Ion stepped onto the porch and saw the bird fluttering wildly toward the high pasture. Then he smelled it: . "Canta cucu, bata-l vina," Ion muttered into his
Ion laughed, wiping ash from his forehead. "Alright, little one. I take it back. Sing all you want." It was the rhythm of his life, but
He dragged himself out of bed, but as he reached for his boots, he noticed something strange. The cuckoo didn't stop after its usual three calls. It kept going—louder, more frantic, almost like it was screaming.