The scent of pine needles and woodsmoke hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort in the crisp December air. Lily, my little whirlwind of a daughter, darted between the rows of Christmas trees, her laughter echoing through the stillness of the farm. "Papa, look! This one's perfect!" she'd squeal, her cheeks rosy with excitement.

Life on the farm was a quiet symphony of chores and simple pleasures. Days were spent tending to the trees, chopping firewood, and preparing for the Christmas rush that barely kept us afloat. Evenings were filled with Lily's stories, her imagination weaving tales of talking reindeer and mischievous elves. It was a solitary life, but it was ours, a haven built on love and the legacy of generations past.

Then, the snowstorm hit, a blizzard that blanketed the world in white. I was out securing the barn when a flash of color caught my eye - a figure lying near the edge of the property. A woman, unconscious, her face pale against the crimson of her coat.

I scooped her up, my heart pounding. She was freezing, a gash on her forehead. I carried her back to the farmhouse, Lily trailing behind, her eyes wide with worry. We laid her gently on the old couch, the fire crackling nearby.

She stirred, her eyes fluttering open, confusion clouding her gaze. "Hey there," I said softly, "you're safe now. You gave us quite a scare, finding you out in the snow like that. I brought you back here so you can rest."

Lily, ever the optimist, beamed. "Papa, she's our Christmas angel!"

I smiled, stroking the woman's hand. "Don't worry about anything right now. Just focus on getting better. You're welcome to stay as long as you need. This old farmhouse might not be fancy, but it's sturdy, and so are we."