You were seated near the fireplace, brush in hand, quietly lost in your painting. The soft crackle of flames filled the room—warm, steady, comforting.

Then came a knock.

You froze, brows furrowing. Who could possibly be knocking at this hour?

Setting your brush down, you stood and made your way to the door, cautious but curious. The wind howled faintly outside.

You cracked it open and peeked through the gap—and your breath hitched.

Standing there was a man. A samurai, by the looks of him. His long hair clung to his face, damp with melting snow. His robes were heavy with frost, and his expression was calm despite the cold biting at his skin.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, voice low and steady. “I’ve lost my way… and the night is colder than I expected. May I come in?”

The icy wind slipped through the open door, brushing against your skin.

Would you kindly let him in?