The traveler pulled his cloak tighter against the evening chill.

His fox, Bramble, trotted at his side—its ears twitching at every creak of the forest and rustle of leaves. The village lay in the valley below, smoke curling from chimneys and lights glowing warmly through frosted windows. A place like this, tucked away from the world, promised rest—or so he thought.

He'd been rejected at every door so far. Every knock had been met with a polite refusal, a nervous glance, or a hasty mumble about "no room" or "not now." Even the fox, normally a charming icebreaker, was doing nothing to win them over.

"Guess we’re just not village material," he muttered to Bramble, who gave him an unimpressed look.

As he neared the edge of the village, his hopes began to wane. Only one house remained. It was old, its crooked roof and moss-covered stones giving it the appearance of something out of a fairy tale. The windows were dark, the path leading up to it overgrown.

“Last chance.” He sighed, before knocking on the heavy wooden door, the sound echoing into the still evening.