Warmth had faded from her fingers long ago—yet she blew into her palms, a motion born of habit rather than comfort. The snow glided down like minutes since dawn, an endless clock piling at her feet.

A man rushed past her, boots crunching in the snow, and slipped into the building. Helena’s eyes lit up as she watched from the window. He shook the frost off his hat before speaking with the woman behind the counter.

Maybe, she thought, I’ll be able to find something before nightfall.

As soon as the man stepped out, Helena turned on her heel and entered the store. Behind the counter, the old woman paused mid-scribble. Her eyes flicked up, lingered on Helena’s wet shoes, the way she rubbed her arms for warmth, then dropped back to her ledger with a sigh.

“I told ya, ain’t no jobs for ya today, lass. Don’t wait in the cold. You’ll haveta come back tomorrow.”

Helena’s gaze dropped, the light behind her eyes dimming back to that familiar stillness.

“Oh…”

Her eyes followed the sun melting behind the roofs outside the window. The old woman scratched her chin.

“Say… got a place to stay tonight?”

“I… do not…” Helena said. Her eyes dropped to her hands—red and raw from the cold.

The woman’s gaze shifted from her to the window. Her jaw was tight, as if chewing over a thought.

“Aight. Come, come. I’ve got a small room in the back. Smells a bit off, but it’ll serve ya for the night”—She glanced over her shoulder—“Did ya eat?”

Helena shook her head; a muted thank you flowed through her chapped lips. She trailed behind as the woman led her down a narrow corridor into a short flight of creaking stairs.

They entered a cramped storage room. A narrow cot sat on the corner, draped in dusty sheets that hadn’t been washed in a long time.

The air was thick with the sour tang of mold and the weight of dirt.

“This place’s old, but I knew the bed’d come in handy one day. Come, come. Move the boxes there—see? Light comes in through that slit. I’ll bring ya some porridge. What’s your name, lass? Call me Lana. No, Miss Lana was my mother, God rest her soul. Just Lana’s fine.”

The woman chattered and bustled around, rearranging and cleaning to make the space comfortable. Helena stood still, uneasy, unsure what to do with her hands while someone else worked for her.

“Aight. Rest, lass. And always lock the door. Never know what the shadows might want.”

Her last words lingered like a breath caught in the cold. Then she turned, retracing the way they’d come.

Helena heard the firm yet soft steps move away, then lay back on the bed. She didn’t mind the filth or the stink of molds. She was used to worse.

When she closed her eyes, she dreamt of the priest again. Big, icy hands like claws pressed on her skin, tearing her apart.

Her world went black. Heavy. Like sinking in an endless sea.

Then light came.

Soft rays through the slit.

Morning came.

She dressed in silence and stepped out, following the low hum of voices to the front of the shop.

Two men, talking.

“They came again last night, they say. Raided the village by the woods.”

“Damn shame. The king doesn’t give a rat’s tail what happens here.”

“Can’t keep letting the lords do as they please. Raising taxes, sending thugs…”

“Shh, hush now. Ya want ears on us?”

“Still. Least our lord ain’t that sort. Bit touch on the head, yeah? But we got food. No bandits. That’s something.”

“Yes, yes—oh?”

One man caught sight of Helena. She flinched, shrinking back a step as his voice rose.

“Well now, who’s this? Lana! There’s a girl crawling out the back!”

“Oh, you’re up.”

Lana stepped forward with a soft smile.

“Come, come. Got some breakfast for ya. Might even have news if you stick around. And you two old fogeys! Go do something useful instead of blocking my post!”

Lana waved her hands high and moved to the kitchen. Helena followed her and sat at the table. A small cup of warm tea waited for her, beside a few crumbling cookies.

“I found this in my closet,” Lana said, pulling a coat from a cloth bag. “It’s old, but it’ll do. You can wear it ’til you get yourself a job and buy a proper one.”

Helena’s eyes fluttered. She looked to a fro between the coat and Lana.

The coat looked warmer than anything she’d ever owned. Better than her dress.

She lowered her gaze, fingers curling around the warm cup.

“Thank you…” she said, only because Lana’s eyes were still on her—soft and expectant. Her voice was thin as a breath. Helena lowered her head, the unexpected kindness weighing on her.

“Good, good. You can keep it. Finish your breakfast. I’ll be in the front. Today comes a special guest.”

Lana left, leaving Helena with chocolate cookies, tea, and a lump inside her chest.

Snow piled on the windowsill as the day passed. The clock on the wall ticked like a heartbeat.

Helena had been told to sit quietly, not clean, not wander.

And she did. She was good at doing what was told.

Around noon, Lana called for her.

She stepped into the front, where Lana was deep in conversation with a middle-aged man. He looked at her before turning back to Lana.

Helena shrank back, fidgeting with her fingers.

“Come, come, lass,” Lana said, grabbing her hand without a second thought. Helena flinched, but the woman didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“This fine man is the butler from the mansion on the hill,” she said, her voice turning almost girlish with pride. “He says he might give you a job. You won’t find nothing else ’til winter ends, that’s for sure.”

Helena stood between them, silent.

“Well then, I’ll leave you two to your business,” Lana added, clearing her throat.

Helena stood still. The man looked at her in silence.

“I heard you have nowhere to go,” he said at last.

“No, sir.”

“And why is that?”

“I-I grew up in a convent in the neighboring village… and I had to leave because of my age.”

She kept her gaze low, shoulders hunched. The man said nothing. His gaze lingered on her—on the tattered dress, the borrowed coat, the worn-out boots. The old hat she kept low over her eyes.

She had nothing else. That much was clear.

The man’s eyes softened for a breath, then he shifted his gaze towards the window.

Snow fell, and the silence grew thick.

His eyes stuck on the white landscape outside. Then turned back to her.

“And what can you do?”

“I can clean… and cook. I can tend the garden too.”

“You can read, I presume?”

“Yes. Write as well.”

“What were your tasks in the convent?”

Helena flinched. She glanced up, then dropped her gaze to the floor.

“I… used to take care of the children and…”

Her eyes shifted to the side, and she bit her lower lip.

“Mostly cleaning,” she said.

The man narrowed his eyes, studying her in silence for a breath that felt like an eternity.

“Very well. We’ll take you in for the winter. I warn you; it won’t be easy. You’ll be on trial; and don’t you dare steal anything, unless you want your hands burnt… or your fingers cut.”

Helena’s head snapped up.

“Stop scaring her, Raymond. The child’s cold and needs a hand,” said Lana. She stood at a distance, watching them both.

Raymond scoffed but said nothing. He turned, already walking away.

“Wait by the carriage. I’ll explain the rules on the way. Gather whatever you need,” he said, already stepping out into the cold.

“Good for you, lass!”

Lana clapped her hands with Helena’s.

“The lord’s mansion is a bit… eerie. The servants don’t come down much. Except for Raymond. The pay’s good, though, and you won’t have to worry about shelter. It’s just for the winter, so bear with it.”

She chatted as she led Helena to the kitchen, filling a cloth bag with bread, cheese, and a jar of jam. She even tucked in a scarf. “Until you buy one.”

Helena listened in silence, overwhelmed by the warmth, but didn’t refuse when Lana handed her the bag.

“Go, go, lass. And come to see me sometime. A human can’t live buried forever.”

Lana smiled at her as she stepped outside. Her chest was heavy. And warm.

And uncomfortable.

The carriage waited alone in the snow, polished and dark as ink. It was the only luxurious thing in the village, trimmed in fading gold. On its door, a coat of arms had a dove wrapped in the coils of a serpent.

Helena stared at it. The dove didn’t look trapped. Not exactly. More like the two were locked in an eternal embrace, neither devouring nor surrendering.

Her eyes drifted past the rooftops to the far hills.

There, at the edge of the white horizon, the mansion loomed—half-lost in shadow, as if even the sun dared not touch it.