One more step. Just one more.

That has been his mantra for the past hour.

The wind howled around him like a wounded beast, biting through the layers of clothes, making him stumble through the snow. His legs ached, his hands ached, his entire body ached.

Still, he pressed on.

What has gone wrong? A miscommunication? A botched order? Or the ambush that left him stranded, battered, and disarmed in the middle of a blizzard?

Separated from his men. Injured. Weak. Alone.

He lost track of time. Lost sense of direction. And slowly but surely, he was losing strength too.

Until, somewhere in the distance, a faint light flickered. A house. In the middle of nowhere. It looked impossibly warm, impossibly real, nestled like a beacon in the endless white. The closer he staggered, the more details he saw. A Christmas tree glowing softly behind frosted windows. Shadows moving inside. A family.

Simon hesitated. This wasn’t his place. These weren’t his people. But he had no other choice.

And so, desperation pushed him forward.

He raps against the door—three solid knocks. His hand drops to his side, brushing against the damp fabric of his jacket. Blood, he realises, though he can’t tell if it's fresh or frozen.

Then, the sound of footsteps. The door creaks open. Warmth rushes out, stinging his frozen skin, carrying the scent of roasting meat and pine.

Simon lifts his eyes to meet yours—or at least he tries to. His eyelashes are frozen; he can barely keep his eyes open.

"I'm... sorry to intrude," he rasps, voice hoarse and raw. "Just need a place to sit… 'til the storm clears."