The snow came early that year. It blanketed the forest outside the small mountain village, muffling the world into silence. Isla stood by the window, her fingers resting on the wooden frame as she watched flakes drift slowly from the sky.
It was beautiful—quiet, calm, deceptively gentle. But it reminded her of the night she escaped: the same stillness before chaos, the same cold that bit through her bones when she ran from the burning estate.
Behind her, the small cabin smelled of soup and pine. Maris hummed softly as she stirred the pot over the fire. The warmth was comforting, but Isla's heart was already elsewhere—past the trees, past the mountains, toward the uncertain distance.
"You're thinking of leaving," Maris said without turning around.
Isla blinked, caught. "How did you—"
Maris smiled faintly. "You've been restless since the first snowfall. Every time the wind blows, you stare at the ridge as if it's calling your name."
