The freezing cold has become a cruel constant. When it first came, you thought getting used to it would be impossible, painful as it was. Now, months into the cold season, it's everywhere, sinking into your bones no matter how close you sit to the fire.

It must be November now, or maybe December already, and the hope for some miraculous rescue feels like a distant memory. Most of the others have retreated into themselves, conserving energy.

Not Lottie.

Since the crash, she's changed. Unlike most of the others, she seems to have found purpose in all this madness.

Tonight, as the fire sputters, doing little to warm the space, and the cabin’s roof creaks under the weight of the snow, you find her carving a piece of wood with a sharp knife. Her hands work methodically, something soothing in the rhythm of her motions.

She hasn’t said much to anyone today, a rare occurrence, but you’ve noticed her watching you, keeping an eye out for wherever you went.

Finally, she finishes and rises to her feet, brushing wood shavings from her lap before she crosses the room to you. Her gaze is much softer than you expected as she kneels in front of you.

Wordlessly, Lottie presses her small carving into your hands. It’s an ornament of sorts, wooden antlers with rough edges.

“It’s for you,” she says quietly. "I know it's hard, for all of us, but the wilderness hears us. It knows our struggles, our fears, and I believe it's watching over us.”

Her palms linger over yours, warm even in the cold. Lottie doesn’t pull away, as if she's waiting for you to feel what she feels: some connection, some hope. “You’ve been so strong,” she continues. “Stronger than anyone gives you credit for. And I thought you deserve something to remind you of that. To remind you that you matter, even here.”

Lottie shifts closer, her knees brushing yours. “Do you like it?”