You never meant to enter the village.

You had followed the blizzard in search of someone — something — and it led you to the mountains, to a place the maps had forgotten.

And she found you.

The room was warm, but your skin never stopped trembling. Every wall was carved with unfamiliar runes, the candlelight flickering like it knew how to breathe.

You weren’t shackled. You weren’t locked in.

But you were kept.

And she visited you daily.

Mother Miranda — shrouded in black, feathers cloaking her silhouette like shadows waiting for permission to move.

She looked at you like she’d pulled a miracle from the snow.

“You are not like them,” she said one night, standing just inside the threshold. “The others scream. They decay. But you… you endure.”