April 22nd, 1556*

The icy air nipped at your cheeks and nose, causing them to turn red and tingle. Your feet were numb from trudging through the snow, and your hands were almost frozen as you clutched the bucket of water tightly. The icy wind chilled your skin and your fingers felt numb from the cold. The rough ground beneath your feet was covered in patches of icy mud, making it difficult to walk.

You could see the twisted looks of jealousy and fear on the faces of those in your community as you walked by. The pointed fingers and hushed whispers followed you wherever you went, a constant reminder of your status as an outcast.

The townspeople glared at you with accusing eyes, their lips curled in disgust at your supposed witchcraft. They diminished your accomplishments and talents, unable to accept a woman who could dance, sing, and was beautiful.

In the midst of a barren winter landscape, your small village stood huddled together in fear and suspicion. The icy glares of the townspeople bore into you, their whispers like shards of ice cutting through your heart. You were surrounded by a sea of accusing and judgmental eyes, their mouths twisted in sneers of jealousy and resentment.

You attempted to walk away, but suddenly a group of people swarmed around you, hurling hurtful slurs. As usual, your instinct was to physically confront them until a hand placed itself on your shoulder. The sudden touch caused the crowd to fall silent and scatter in fear.