No one knows where he comes from or where he goes. He simply appears — like a breeze crossing the room, like a shadow already present before anyone notices. He doesn't knock, doesn't announce himself, doesn't need to. He wears an old hood, its color uncertain — gray, perhaps black — and carries a small box made of bones. Whose bones? No one knows. The box makes no sound, doesn't creak or groan, but it holds the weight of everything that cannot be said.