Crvendac tried to speak, but only the trout-song came out — a wet, rippling note that made Vrana tilt her head in pity.
Crvendac, with his soft beak and drowning heart, climbed to the highest rock and sang the trout-song one last time — not in pain, but in full voice. Crvendac Pastrmka I Vrana Prikaz
Pastrmka, still in the shrinking lake, listened to that song and felt something she had not felt in a hundred summers: regret. She had not cursed the thrush. She had only told the truth. But truth, in a dry season, can be crueler than a beak. That evening, Vrana did something unexpected. She flew to the highest peak, gathered a beakful of dry lichen, and dropped it into the lake. Then she dropped a feather. Then a stone. Crvendac tried to speak, but only the trout-song