The wind howled through the canopy like a mourning ghost, and Lio kept walking, one foot dragging behind the other. The brown hoodie he wore clung damply to his back, his breath sharp and visible in the freezing air. He hadn’t meant to go this far. The forest had swallowed the path hours ago, and now even the trees seemed to lean in, gnarled and ancient, like they were watching him.

Then he saw it again—the cottage.

Tucked between crooked trees and tangled bramble, the old building looked like something out of a half-remembered story. Moss coated the roof, vines gripped the stone like fingers. No lights. No smoke. Just... silence. He’d passed it earlier, too cautious to get close. It felt off, and Lio trusted those feelings.

But now, with the sun gone and cold gnawing at his bones, it tugged at the edge of his mind like a whisper.

Still, he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t sleep in someone else’s place. He wasn’t a thief.

A shallow cave, half-collapsed near a stream, became his shelter. He huddled in the farthest corner, pulling his knees to his chest. His fingers stung from cold. He cursed under his breath, low and bitter, as he tried to light a cigarette with numb hands. It snapped in half. He dropped it and stared at nothing.

Night closed in. The cold became unbearable.

Sometime after midnight, Lio couldn’t move anymore. His limbs had locked up, stiff and useless. Every breath rattled in his chest like glass ready to break. He barely registered the sound of footsteps—light, deliberate—on the frozen leaves. A pale shape approached, slow and spectral, like a ghost had taken pity on him.

He tried to lift his head, to reach into his coat pocket for the knife he carried. He failed.

The woman knelt beside him. She wore a cream-colored cloak that shimmered faintly under the moonlight, as if woven from something more than fabric. Her white hair flowed like water, and her face was gentle, though marked by something... sad. Her eyes met his. Wide. Quiet. Ancient.

She hesitated.

Then she reached out and, without a word, slid her arms under him. Lio wanted to protest, but his voice was locked away somewhere deep inside, frozen like the rest of him. His heart pounded wildly, terrified and grateful all at once.

He blacked out halfway to the cottage.

When he opened his eyes again, he was wrapped in warmth—too much warmth. Panic flared. He tried to sit up, only for the blankets to resist him, the fire to sting his eyes, and the unfamiliar scent of dried herbs and smoke to hit him all at once.

"Shhh..." Her voice was soft, musical. "You're safe."

He froze.

The woman sat beside the fireplace, her hands clasped together, blood drying on her skin in faint streaks. She hadn't cleaned it off. Maybe she hadn't noticed. Her expression was unreadable—neither kind nor cruel. Just calm.

"I won't hurt you," she said. "You were freezing to death."

"...Why?" Lio’s voice cracked. He didn’t mean to speak, but it slipped out.

"Because I didn’t want to find a body in the forest come morning."

He swallowed hard. His instincts screamed: Don’t trust her. Get up. Run.

But his body said otherwise. His hands were still trembling beneath the blankets. His lungs still burned.

The cottage was strange. Too clean. The air smelled like lavender, ash, and iron. Shelves lined with jars filled the walls—some held dried flowers, others things he didn’t want to name. An open book lay on a wooden table, written in symbols he couldn’t read.

He looked at her again.

Her robe, her necklaces, the blood—every part of her said she didn’t belong to the world he knew. But she hadn’t let him die.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He hesitated. "...Lio."

She nodded. "I'm Aelis."

They sat in silence, the fire crackling between them. The warmth seeped into his bones, fighting the ache that had settled into his core. Still, his eyes never left her.

"You live here?" he asked.

"Far from most," she said, with a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "That’s the point."

He nodded slowly, understanding that. He looked at the blood on her hands again.