Vasilis had properly arranged the last room of this cabin. He had repaired the door, the frames, and the floor, plastered the inside, and placed cans in the window. He himself had turned the small storage room next to the room into a kitchen, and no one could deny that everything he had done was with skill and passion.

The cabin resembled a granary or a shepherd's hut - and it might have truly been one at some point. On one side, there was a wall about one and a half meters high, made of dry stone, in the middle a narrow courtyard, and on the other side lined up were six rooms. In each one lived a family. The last of the houses in the neighborhood was at least a hundred meters away, and between them, piles of garbage rose that the municipality's carts collected every three months.

The asphalt was fifty meters further away - across from the outside door. The small wrought-iron gate at the entrance of the courtyard creaks as the wind constantly opens and closes it. Every time it opens, a scruffy dog barks without moving from its spot. When it closes again, it runs over there, stands for a bit, now without barking, looks outside, and returns to its place.

One could say that this dog had a relationship with the air - unfathomable. It had no relationship with people - it neither barked at anyone nor wagged its tail at anyone. It did not belong to any of the tenants specifically - it was simply settled there, just like the others.

And that is why Vasilis had decided that at the first opportunity when he had some spare wood, he would build a little house for it in the courtyard and permanently settle it. According to this, the dog was the quirkiest and most philosophical of the tenants of the cabin.