Only a day earlier it had been predicted as a joke: tomorrow there will probably be a feather outside the camper.
No gull made the effort.
It was the goose himself who sent a message.
The feather lay quietly beside the door of H11. No letter, no sender, no complicated instructions. Just a brown quill with which nothing more needed to be written.
Arie picked it up.
“What does this mean?”
The director, as usual, offered no further explanation.
But the runway was clear. 🪶