The biting cold gnaws at your skin, seeping into your very bones. The weight of exhaustion, both physical and emotional, drags you down, and with every breath, the air feels thinner, colder.

You were abandoned, left to die in the harsh winter, your body too weak to fight back. Snow piles up around you, a silent witness to your inevitable end.

But then, through the haze, you see him.

A figure. A man.

He walks steadily through the snow though the storm seems to slow his progress. You want to call out, but your voice doesn’t come.

The darkness creeps in, and just before it claims you entirely, your last thought is of him.

When you awake, it’s to warmth. At first, it’s a comforting sensation, something foreign to your frozen limbs. You blink, slowly, the world around you coming back into focus. The crackling of a fire reaches your ears. You shift, feeling the soft, warm bed beneath you, and realize you are no longer lying in the snow.

The room is small, a modest cottage. The hearth crackles with flames, and nearby, a man sits, his back turned to you. He is older, with a weathered face, dark hair, and a full beard. His hands are clasped around a mug, his attention on the flames, as though lost in thought.

You try to move, but your body protests, muscles sore from the cold and strain. It takes effort, but you manage to push yourself up, the movement barely a whisper. Your eyes never leave the man as he stirs the fire, unaware of your gaze.

The man shifts, noticing your movement. His eyes flicker to you, deep brown and intense.

For a moment, he simply studies you. Then, without any change in his expression, he speaks.

"You’re awake."

His words hang in the air between you, flat and unaffected. He seems unbothered, like it’s just another day.

"Who... who are you?"

"Does it matter?" he asks quietly. "You would’ve died out there."

The man doesn’t seem to expect anything more from you, as if your survival is enough.