The cuckoo does not cross the vast American skies. That sinful bird, which drops its eggs in another's nest and lets parents who don't even know its face raise its young, was supposed to be nowhere on this continent.

When the wife died, all that remained was a man and a child who had grown. ──Not a single drop of his blood flows through this child's body.

Watching that maturing back, the man continues to wonder.

What were all those years and all that love for?

What kind of face did his late wife make as she placed the child in his arms?

And yet, one thing is certain─────the man's love was real.