The wolves were so close Emma could hear the air whistling through their teeth. The forest, sometimes her only companion, seemed hungry that night. She pressed her back against the cabin door, the rifle trembling in her cold-chapped hands. Three winters alone had taught her to read the mountain’s signs: the sudden silence of the birds, the tracks abruptly ending near the stream, the wind suddenly changing direction as if fleeing from something.
But this time the warning wasn’t silence, but a human sound.
A small, sharp cry pierced the darkness like a knife. Emma turned her head toward the window, her heart pounding in her chest. Through the pines, barely visible in the faint moonlight, she made out two figures: a little girl stumbling in the knee-deep snow, and behind her the tall silhouette of a man advancing with the restrained calm of someone who had faced worse than a pack of wolves.
Her instinct screamed at her to close the door, to bolt it, and pretend she hadn’t seen anything. In those parts, opening the door to strangers could mean never seeing the sunrise. Even so, the girl’s legs were giving way, her crying was becoming more desperate, and behind them, Emma caught sight of gray shadows moving among the trees. The wolves had found easy prey.
“Here!” she shouted without thinking. “Run here!”
The man scooped the girl up in his arms and started running. Emma flung open the door, leaned out onto the porch, and fired two shots into the air, over their heads. The shots echoed through the valley, and the shadows stopped, hesitant. A growl, yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness, and then the pack dissolved into the trees.
The man climbed the wooden steps, almost slipping, with the girl clutched to his chest. When they finally entered, Emma slammed the door shut and bolted it, feeling her heart pound in her throat.
Up close, the man looked younger than his sun- and wind-weathered face suggested, perhaps around thirty. The girl, her cheeks red from the cold, couldn’t have been more than seven. They were both wearing soaked, thin clothes, completely unsuitable for a blizzard in the middle of winter.
“We lost our horses,” he explained, his voice as rough as gravel, yet with something soft hidden beneath. “We got disoriented in the snow. I saw the light from your cabin and…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. There was no need.
Emma’s cabin was small: a single room, a bed, a table, a couple of chairs, a few shelves, and just enough provisions to get through the winter. Just enough for one person, not three. As she watched them, she could feel an invisible calculator kicking into gear in her mind: how many sacks of flour she had left, how much dried meat, how many days all that could last if she shared.
But the little girl was trembling so much her teeth were chattering.
“Just… one night,” she said finally, stepping aside to let them pass. “When the storm is over, you can go on your way.”
The man held her gaze. His eyes were gray, cold as the January sky, but there was no threat in them, only a kind of deep weariness.
“One night,” he repeated. “You have my word.”
He didn’t offer his name, and Emma didn’t ask. In that region, sometimes it was safer not to know too much. She hung the wet coats near the fire, careful not to brush too much against the man’s fine wool or the little girl’s dress. His boots were custom-made leather, worn but expensive. The little girl’s dress had lace at the neckline. They didn’t look like vagrants or outlaws.
And that’s precisely why they could be more dangerous.
Emma served a simple stew in wooden bowls: thin broth, more potatoes than meat, but hot. She watched the man as he ate slowly, breaking the bread into small pieces and giving them to his daughter first. The way he looked at her, the care he took to make sure she ate before him, the gentleness with which he tucked her wet hair behind her ear… those kinds of things couldn’t be faked.
“You’re far from any town,” Emma said, breaking the silence.
“We like it that way,” he replied without taking his eyes off her. “And so do you. You live here alone. Three winters. That’s… brave.”
The word “brave” fell heavily on the table. To Emma, it didn’t sound like a compliment. Brave, desperate, broken… often all of those things were mixed together.
“Are you running from something or going toward something?” she dared to ask.
He smiled slightly, a brief, almost forgotten glimmer.
“It depends on the day.”
The girl, half asleep, suddenly lifted her head.
“My name is Sara,” she whispered. “Daddy says I shouldn’t talk to strangers, but you saved us from the wolves.”
“Sara, that’s enough,” the man said, gently but firmly.
Emma felt something in her chest loosen a little.
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