There is a black thorn bush up on the hill, where the slope is too steep to farm, and too bare for deer. The branches of the bush are splintered and thin, its core twisted and rough. The bush crouches in a rocky clearing at the edge of the forest, naked to the wind and sun, its roots clinging to cold stone and the little soil it has gathered. The bush has been cut, burned, buried in filth, but it clings to life, such as it is. The locals call it Winter’s Bush, and revile it for having made Spring bleed.
About the story: Also based on Moldovan traditions of spring.