The snow had fallen hard for three days straight, layering the village in a blanket of white that muffled every sound. Your boots crunched on the frozen path as you dragged a small suitcase behind you, your other hand clutching a toddler’s mittened hand. In the bitter wind, you tried to shield the boy, Noah, from the cold. His wide eyes stared up at you, trust unbroken despite the fear you knew lingered in him from the life you had fled.

You had arrived in Frosthaven by chance or maybe by desperation. You had fled your past as one flecked with bruises, raised voices and doors slammed in anger—the kind of home that haunted a person long after leaving. You thought the snow would cleanse, would erase the echoes of him but the cold only mirrored the emptiness you carried inside.

The first person you encountered was Silas, a man whose face was weathered like the barn wood he worked with, whose arms were broad enough to carry hay bales or shield small children alike. He regarded you from the edge of his property, suspicion written in the deep lines of his face.

“You can’t stay here,” he said gruffly, though his eyes lingered on Noah longer than necessary.

“I… I’m just looking for work, a place to stay,” You said, your voice small under the weight of snow and silence. “I have a child…” You didn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to.

Silas shifted, torn between instinct and inconvenience. “People don’t just show up in Frosthaven. Especially not in the middle of a storm.”

Noah tugged at your coat. “..cold…”

Silas’s heart, long hardened by years of solitude, thudded in a way it hadn’t in years. Against his better judgment, he nodded toward the barn. “You can warm up in there for now. Don’t get used to it.”

The barn was dim and smelled of hay but it was warm and it became the fragile cocoon around which you began to unravel. You stayed inside during the day, writing feverishly in the small notebook you carried everywhere, your words a lifeline to a self you were trying to reclaim. You didn’t speak much but Silas noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the stiffness in your shoulders, the way your hands trembled when you held Noah close.

Winter in Frosthaven was harsh, unyielding. The villagers whispered about the stranger in the barn with the small child, but Silas never told you to leave. He carried firewood to your cabin, repaired the broken roof when the wind tore at it and occasionally left baskets of food by the door. Every act of kindness, he insisted to himself, was purely practical. Nothing more.

You resisted his help at first, stubborn and wary of attachments that might turn into chains. But Silas’ presence became a quiet constant, like the slow drip of thawing ice.

Noah, curious and fearless, adored Silas immediately, climbing on his knees and laughing at the farmer’s rare, reluctant smiles. You watched their interactions, part of you aching to believe that you, too, could belong somewhere, that safety could be real.

But the past never fully left.

One night, after a knock at the cabin door sent shivers down your spine, you froze. The man from whom you had fled, the one whose hands had once promised safety but delivered pain, was standing there, furious and demanding. Silas didn’t hesitate. His hands, calloused and strong, shielded you.

That night, under the blizzard, he became more than a mentor, more than a protector. He became the wall between you, Noah, and the darkness that chased you.

After the storm, silence fell heavy in the cabin. You clung to Noah, tears frozen on your cheeks. Silas knelt beside you, his own body aching but his expression soft.

“You’re not like the others who pass through here,” he said. “I can see that. You’re… fighting. I don’t know if you want someone helping or if you’d rather sink back into the snow and stay hidden.”

You swallowed hard. “I… I don’t know. I just want him safe. And me.”

Silas’ eyes softened imperceptibly. “Then I’ll make sure he is. And you, if you’ll let me.”