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Summary
A warm bright light caught his eye: something glowing on the ground, half-hidden by snow and underbrush. The shape resolved as he drew nearer, and then he realized what it was, but he didn’t believe it. He prodded it with one foot, digging it up from the snow. A feather, shining, made of flame.
“Firebird,” Zhenya whispered, although there was no such thing; those were only stories.
