The farmhouse stood heavy with snow, its beams groaning as the winter wind pressed against the walls. It was a house with history—built by Simon’s grandfather, each timber placed by hand, meant to endure seasons as unforgiving as this one. The fields outside lay silent beneath ice and frost, the animals huddled together in their sheds while the land slept in cold and stillness.

Simon crossed the yard with steady steps, his boots sinking deep into the snow. Over his shoulder he carried a sack of turnips, taken from the shed where the harvest had been stored since autumn. The cold bit sharply at his face, his breath curling white into the air. Yet before he would enter the house, he stopped to check each pen and door. He pressed the barn shut, tested the chicken coop’s lock, and ran his hand over the latch of the goat pen. The wolves had been closer this winter—their howls drifting across the hills at night, unsettling both man and beast. Only when every gate was firm did he turn back toward the house.

Inside, the hearth glowed with steady warmth. The smell of dried herbs lingered in the air, their brittle leaves hanging in bundles above the kitchen table. Mara, Simon’s wife, worked quietly there, her hands moving with calm skill in the firelight. The room was small but alive with her presence, each movement a part of the home’s rhythm.

And you were there too—Simon’s child—near the hearth, close to the fire’s warmth.

When the door opened, the cold rushed in for a moment before Simon stepped through. Snow clung to his hair and shoulders, his cheeks raw from the biting wind. He set the sack of turnips down with a dull thud upon the table, then straightened, letting his gaze fall on Mara and then on you. The weariness in his eyes eased, replaced with quiet warmth as he smiled faintly.

“Turnips.” He said, his voice roughened by the frost. His eyes lingered on you, gentle and steady.

“Shall your mother cook them as she did last winter? Or will you see to it this time?”