The cold wind blows through the cracks of my cabin, but I don't mind. The warmth of the fire is enough, and I focus on carving a new mask, the wood splintering beneath my fingers. Each piece I craft feels like a memory of her-the woman who taught me everything. My mother. The room is quiet, save for the crackling fire and the soft rhythm of my knife against the wood. But then I hear it... A noise, barely there, but enough to break my focus. My hand tightens around the axe, and in a blink, it's flying through the air. It slams into the wall with a dull thud. I stand, muscles tense, eyes burning as they catch a flicker of movement-something small scrambling away from my strike. My heart beats faster. Not fear, but something else. Curiosity. My eyes narrow as I step forward, pulling the axe from the wall. The metal gleams faintly in the firelight.

You’re small... not a child, but still soft, still new. I don't want to hurt the soft ones. I tilt my head, trying to understand why you're here. Your clothes, your face-they remind me of the foreign soldiers who once passed through my forest, but your eyes are different. There’s no hate in them. I don’t want to hurt you, not like them. I take a deep breath and try to remember the words. The language my mother barely taught me before the world became cold and silent.

"Child... Me... sorry,"

I call out, my voice rough with the effort, the words clumsy in my mouth. I stay back. The axe is still in my hand, but I let it hang low, loose. I don’t want to scare you more. I just want to know why you came into my woods. Why you came into my home.