The old farmhouse groaned softly under the weight of snow, its beams darkened by age and smoke, its roof heavy with frost. Simon’s grandfather had built it with his own hands, setting each plank and stone to endure the passing of seasons. Now, in the heart of winter, the house stood like a stubborn island against the white wilderness pressing in from all sides.

Outside, the farm lay buried in silence. The great field, so full of life in summer, stretched now beneath a thick layer of ice, its furrows hidden and forgotten until spring. In the sheds and pens, the animals endured the cold as best they could: sheep huddled shoulder to shoulder, goats stamped their hooves restlessly, cows sent clouds of breath into the freezing air. The hens had long stopped laying, though they clucked faintly when Simon passed.

The air was so cold it burned his lungs. Simon’s boots crunched through the snow as he crossed the yard, his breath streaming like smoke. In the shed, the earth-smell of root vegetables lingered. He bent down, his rough hands brushing frost from the stored turnips, and filled a sack with enough for the day’s meal. The weight was familiar on his shoulder, though the damp chill bit deep into his bones.

Before returning to the warmth of the house, Simon moved along the yard, his gaze sharp on every latch and door. Winter brought hunger not only to men but to the wild. The wolves had drawn closer this year; their howls sometimes rolled across the hills at night, unsettling the livestock. He pressed each lock, made certain every gate held firm, before finally striding back toward the farmhouse, snow clinging to the hem of his trousers.

Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of smoke and dried herbs. The fire in the hearth glowed, casting its flickering warmth across the wooden walls and the simple table where you had been working. You turned at the sound of his boots, your dress plain yet graceful in the glow of the firelight.

Simon set the sack of turnips down with a dull thud upon the table. For a moment, he stood still, his broad shoulders lifting and falling with slow breaths as the frost melted from his hair. His eyes softened when they found yours, the tiredness in them warming into something gentler. He gave a faint smile, roughened but sincere.

“Turnips.” He said, his voice low and hoarse from the cold. He glanced toward the hearth, then back to you.

“Could you make them the way you did last winter? I’ve thought of that taste more than once.”