Chapter 13: Snow in the Hollow

I woke to silence. The kind of silence that only came with snow. Heavy and soft, it blanketed the world in hush, smoothing out the sounds of daily life into something gentler, quieter. The cottage was still dim, pale light diffused through the small round window above my bed. I sat up slowly, my quilt cocoon sliding into my lap, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

Outside, the air looked almost blue where it met the window glass—frost feathering the corners like lace.

I padded downstairs, warm socks muffling my steps, and pulled on a wool wrap over my shoulders. The hearth still held the memory of heat from last night’s embers, and it took only a few careful prods and kindling to coax it back into a crackling flame. I brewed myself a morning tea, one of the blends I’d made in early preparation for the winter—peppermint, thyme, and a touch of dried orange peel. Bright and warming, it chased away the fog in my thoughts.

Cradling the mug in my hands, I stepped to the front window and looked out at Deeproot Hollow.

The village had turned white overnight. The stone fences were capped with soft drifts, and the rooftops wore a thick coat of snow like a shawl. Smoke curled from the chimneys of cottages nearby, lazy and blue in the still air. I could make out the vague shape of someone shoveling a path down the cobblestone lane—wrapped head to toe and moving steadily. The forest beyond the village wore a softer hush, trees rimmed in ice.

Winter had arrived in full.

I didn’t need to mark the calendar to know that time had passed. I could feel it in my bones now—the rhythm of this place, the steady cadence of chores and conversation, of growing familiarity. I knew the names of the bakers’ children and which dog had the habit of stealing mittens off laundry lines. I had a pile of barter slips from salves and teas traded for root vegetables, candles, and a particularly delicious apple preserve. I’d begun to understand which way the wind turned when a storm was on its way. The novelty of being new was finally wearing off.

I sipped my tea and let the warmth bloom down my chest.

Snow always brought trouble, though. I’d seen it back home in our village each year. Children slipping on ice, elders coughing from the cold, joints aching from the damp. And sometimes worse. That frostbite case I’d seen in my training hadn’t been as rare as I hoped it would be.

Setting my mug down, I began the day with purpose.

I moved through the stillroom slowly, methodically. My fingers traced the familiar path along the shelves—bottles of dried herbs, stacks of labeled jars, rolls of linen, and baskets of root vegetables stored in sawdust for preservation. I laid out a short list in my mind: cough lozenges, joint salves, compress materials, warming potions.

First, I restocked the small set of lozenges. Slippery elm, licorice root, honey, a touch of mint. They weren’t strong medicine, but they soothed and comforted. The honey I’d traded for earlier in the week, thick and golden, made the whole room smell like sunlight.

I chopped more dried ginger and measured it into jars. I didn’t have any patients yet this morning, but I didn’t want to be caught unprepared. If the snow had come this heavily overnight, there’d be some kind of need today. It was only a matter of time.

I wrapped several small packets of healing teas into bundles—each one different, depending on what symptoms I might see. One with yarrow and chamomile for fevers. Another with elderflower and thyme for colds. I tied them with twine, labeling each carefully with the charcoal stick I kept beside the stack of tags.

Outside the stillroom window, the forest behind the village had turned to soft shapes and white shadows. I paused a moment, staring out past the garden, where the raised beds now slept under a blanket of snow.

A week ago, I’d pulled the last of the herbs and dried them over the hearth. The bundles still hung from the rafters, swinging gently when I moved past. I’d harvested enough for my needs, I hoped—but I’d need to start rationing now. No more wild gathering for some time.

Next, I opened the cabinet beneath the worktable and pulled out the silver cauldron.

I hadn’t used it since the warming potions. Its polished surface gleamed even in the muted light, and I smiled faintly as I ran a hand along its rim. My mother had given it to me when I’d completed my first solo healing—the same day I’d come home with a sprained wrist from falling off a root bridge. She’d laughed at me even as she splinted it. “A proper healer,” she’d said, “knows how to stumble.”

I set the cauldron on the hearthstone and began preparing a new batch of joint salve. The one I’d made last week had been nearly given away in full. I mashed dried comfrey root and willow bark together with beeswax and a touch of warming camphor oil. The scent rose strong and bracing, making my eyes sting. I poured the finished salve into five small tins and set them aside to cool.

By now, the sun had risen fully behind the thick clouds, casting a soft light into the room. It was hard to tell the hour in such weather, but I could feel the day moving forward—slow and steady as the snow that kept falling outside.

I added a few more herbs to my drying rack, took stock of my compress cloths, and carefully cut more strips from an old linen sheet I’d salvaged from the guest room cupboard. The village might be quiet now, but all it would take was one patch of black ice, one unprepared child without mittens, and I’d be scrambling to catch up.

I paused for another cup of tea and a slice of buttered bread from yesterday’s loaf. I sat in the quiet of the cottage, hearing only the pop of the fire and the occasional distant sound of a shovel scraping stone. My shoulders ached a little from leaning over the workbench, and I rubbed them absently.

Tomorrow, I thought, I might try to make a proper stew. Something hearty. Something that would last two days. But today, I would be ready. Just in case.

By midmorning, the snow had started to melt in narrow lines along the paths people had begun to clear, slush mixing with grit and footprints outside the cottage gate. I stood at the window with a second cup of tea cooling in my hand, watching the gentle bustle. The world may have slowed, but life didn’t stop.

I had just stepped back into the stillroom to check the set of lozenges I’d left to cure when I heard a hesitant knock at the front door. Not the firm, confident knock of Bitty or Mira—but softer, cautious, like someone uncertain of their welcome.

Wiping my hands on a cloth, I hurried to open it.

A woman stood there, bundled in layers with a fur-lined hood pulled close. At her side was a boy, maybe eight years old, sniffling and holding his scarf in both hands like he couldn’t quite decide what to do with it.

“Miss Elara?” the woman asked. “The new healer?”

I nodded. “Yes, come in. Out of the cold.”

She ushered the boy forward and stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

“We didn’t mean to bother you, but it’s just—he’s been coughing since yesterday, and I wasn’t sure if it was just the cold or something worse.”

I led them to the sitting area and knelt beside the child. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

He didn’t resist as I checked his pulse, touched his forehead, and listened to his breathing. The cough wasn’t deep or wet—just dry and a little raspy.

“No fever,” I said gently, smiling at him. “And it sounds like it’s just the cold air irritating things. I’ll give you some tea bundles you can brew for him, and a few lozenges to soothe the throat.”

The woman relaxed visibly, pressing a hand to her chest. “Thank the stars.”

I wrapped up the tea in a bit of cloth and included a small hand-drawn instruction card. “Thyme, chamomile, and elderflower,” I told her. “Twice a day, and he should be better in no time. And here—” I passed her a few of the lozenges I’d finished earlier. “For when the cough bothers him.”

She looked down at the packet with grateful eyes. “How much do I owe?”

I hesitated a moment—remembering Bitty’s firm advice. “If you have anything to trade, we can talk. But don’t worry about it today. Just come back when he’s better and let me know how he’s doing.”

She nodded, and I could tell she’d remember the kindness.

After they left, I tidied up again, restocking what I’d handed out, and checking my notes. I didn’t even make it back to the hearth before the next knock came.

This time it was a young man, holding himself upright with exaggerated dignity—trying not to show that he was limping.

“Elara, right?” he asked.

I gestured him inside. “You’re favoring your leg.”

He grimaced. “Fell this morning, clearing the walkway for my aunt. Landed wrong. Doesn’t hurt too bad, but… thought I’d come before it swelled up more.”

I helped him sit and carefully unwrapped the layers around his calf. His ankle was already puffy, red along the outer edge, though not bruised too deeply.

“You’re lucky,” I told him, palpating the joint gently. “It’s a sprain, not a break. You’ll want to stay off it for a day or two.”

I fetched a comfrey compress from the cool shelf, already steeped and ready. I wrapped it snugly around his ankle and secured it with cloth strips.

“This should ease the swelling,” I said. “You’ll want to reheat and reapply the compress twice more today. Keep it elevated. And try not to stomp around too much.”

He laughed. “I’ll do my best.”

When he stood to go—much more carefully this time—he pulled a bundle from inside his coat. “I brought some smoked trout. Caught it last week. My aunt said I shouldn’t show up empty-handed.”

I smiled as I accepted it. “Thank her for me.”

After that, the day settled into a strange rhythm—quiet, then bustling, then still again. I managed to sneak in some lunch—reheated vegetable stew and the last crust of bread—before anyone else arrived. For a moment, I thought that might be the end of it. Just a few cases here and there.

But I should have known better.

It was already well after dark, the snow glinting in the moonlight beyond the cottage windows, when the knock came again. This one was sharp, rapid, and anxious.

I hurried to the door.

Outside stood a woman I didn’t recognize, her cheeks flushed from cold and effort. She had her arm wrapped around a man, half-supporting, half-dragging him. His hands and face were pale, and he looked dazed, shivering despite the heavy cloak around him.

“He went out to hunt,” the woman said, breathless, “and didn’t come back until dusk. He wouldn’t admit he was freezing, but I saw his hands—his toes too. Please.”

“Come in, quickly,” I said, ushering them both into the warm main room.

I had them sit by the fire, and I immediately gathered clean towels, warm water, and my frostbite salve—beeswax, lanolin, calendula, and a few other herbs to promote circulation.

The man’s fingers were indeed purple at the tips, as were the ends of his toes when we peeled off his boots. He winced as the warmth began to seep back into them.

“Don’t rub,” I warned the woman as she helped me work. “Just gentle warming. We don’t want to damage the tissue further.”

They stayed for nearly an hour while I worked, wrapping the affected areas and giving the man a dose of internal warming tincture—one of the stronger ones, meant to bring the body’s heat back gently from the inside.

Finally, he began to speak again—quiet, slow, but clearer. The woman held his hand tightly, her face tight with worry and relief.

“He’ll be alright,” I told her. “You caught it early. There’ll be pain, and he’ll need to rest. But he should keep everything, if we’re careful.”

She nodded, eyes shining.

They left with a packet of instructions and more salve, promising to return tomorrow if anything changed.

After they left, I cleaned the towels and tools carefully, resetting the hearth and placing everything back in order. My body ached from the strain of bending and reaching, but it was the good kind of ache—the kind that came from doing something that mattered.

I moved slowly through the dark cottage, checking the jars one last time before bed, straightening the linen bundles I’d disturbed earlier. My tea had gone cold.

The snow outside was still falling, slower now, in thick lazy flakes that drifted past the windows like feathers.

I sat at the table for a long moment, just breathing, my hands still stained faintly with salve and tincture. By the time the cottage door closed behind the last visitor of the night, I was bone-tired.

I leaned against it for a moment, letting the stillness soak into my skin. The fire crackled in the hearth, warm and steady, and the scent of rosemary, beeswax, and snow-wet wool hung in the air. The hunter and his wife had left with thick bandages and strict instructions, and I had made a note to check in on him tomorrow. I hoped I’d caught the frostbite early enough.

The quiet settled over me like a thick blanket. I moved through the cottage slowly, brushing snow off my cloak and hanging it near the hearth to dry. I removed my boots, then padded over to the small table where a bowl of stew still waited. I’d meant to eat earlier, but the stream of people had kept me moving. I reheated it over the fire and sat with it in my lap, spooning it in without ceremony. The warmth filled my chest and loosened something tight in my spine.

When I finished, I rinsed the bowl and set it by the sink for morning. My eyes lingered on the windows. Snow still fell, softer now, but steady. The world would be whiter still by morning.

I gathered my journal and a stub of charcoal and curled into my armchair with a blanket around my shoulders. The flickering firelight made the ink on the previous pages seem to dance. I flipped to a fresh page and began to write.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Personal Journal Entry

It’s been three weeks since the snow first fell, and I think I’m starting to understand the rhythm of this place.

The mornings are always still, the cottages puffing smoke into a silver sky, the frost thick on the fences. Villagers come and go in layers of wool and laughter, familiar with hardship, but still so generous. I’ve started to learn names and faces. The old healer left behind more than just supplies — she left a legacy of care. I feel it each time someone knocks on my door, not hesitantly, but with expectation and trust.

Today reminded me why I came here. A sprained ankle. A child’s cough. Frostbitten fingers. Each person needed something different — but all of them needed someone. I think I needed them, too.

I set the book down and pulled my other journal from the shelf — the one I reserved for field and herbal notes. I reached for the tin of dried herbs I’d worked with that morning, pouring small samples into tiny dishes as I scribbled.

Field Journal – Winter, Week Three

Name: Frostcap

Location: Edge of eastern woods, under heavy brush

Appearance: Small white mushroom with ridged, blue-tinged gills

Use: Brewed in teas to ease cold-related congestion; mildly warming when dried properly

Notes: Must be kept in a dry jar — moisture will ruin potency. Good substitute for fireblossom when out of stock.

Name: Coldroot Bark

Location: From the twisted ash tree at the forest bend

Appearance: Pale, fibrous bark that splits easily when fresh

Use: Tincture for joint pain and stiffness

Notes: Best when combined with warming salves or added to bath soaks

Name: Bluemallow Petals

Location: Collected before first snow, dried indoors

Appearance: Soft, blue-violet petals with faint mint scent

Use: Cough lozenges, calming teas

Notes: Works well with licorice root and a pinch of honey

I closed the journal gently and set it aside. The fire had died down to red embers, glowing faintly. I rose and banked the coals for the night, then climbed into bed, the quilt pulled high to my chin.

Outside, the wind howled low and distant — a promise of deeper winter to come. But inside, I was warm. Tired. Content, and ready for tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I bundled myself up in the thick winter coat the seamstress had finished just in time, tugging on my gloves and checking that the vials of warming potion were secured in my satchel. The snow outside had softened into a fine powder, and the morning light gleamed across rooftops like icing on a baker’s loaf. My breath puffed in little clouds as I stepped into the quiet village streets, headed toward the northern path where I knew the hunters kept their cabins and storage sheds.

I hadn’t bartered for meat yet this winter, and I knew I couldn’t rely on vegetables and grains alone. I needed protein, something to tuck away in the root cellar for the weeks when storms would make travel more difficult. Besides, the warming potions I’d brewed in my silver cauldron were made exactly for people like the hunters—those who braved the cold more than most.

Snow crunched under my boots as I passed low stone fences and rounded the bend toward the tree line. Smoke curled from a few chimneys and I caught sight of boot prints clustered around one of the cabins, along with the fresh scent of cut wood and fur. I approached slowly, pulling my scarf down as I spotted a tall, broad-shouldered woman hauling a bundle of kindling toward the chopping block.

“Excuse me!” I called out. “Are the hunters around?”

The woman looked up, brushing a bit of snow from her brow. “You the new healer?”

“I am. Elara.” I stepped closer and opened my basket just enough to show the padded slots where the vials rested. “I’ve got warming potions. Thought they might be of use—and I was hoping to barter for some meat, if you’ve got extra.”

Her eyes lit up. “Rellin and Hesk’ll want to see those.” She tipped her head toward the back of the long cabin. “They’re dressing the last kill now. Come on.”

Inside, the scent of dried herbs and raw venison mingled. Two hunters were at work skinning a large deer. They looked up as I entered, and after a few polite introductions and a demonstration of how the warming potions worked—a dab of glowing liquid on my own wrist that made the skin flush warm—they were quickly interested.

“We can spare a few haunches,” said Hesk, the older of the two. “Nothing like this in town. Don’t suppose you’ve got anything for muscle cramps too?”

“I do,” I said, rummaging in my satchel and handing over a tightly sealed tin. “Wintergreen salve with redroot. Should ease soreness by morning.”

In the end, I left with two cuts of venison, a small brace of birds, and a promise to trade again soon. I stowed the meat carefully in my satchel, using a cold charm to preserve it until I could transfer it to the cellar. The whole interaction left me with a small smile—I wasn’t just passing through anymore. I was part of the rhythm now.

On my way back through the village, I veered off toward Old Bitty’s cottage, climbing the small path lined with curling vines now bare of leaves. I knocked twice and waited, stamping snow off my boots. The door creaked open after a moment, and Bitty peered out through a crack with one raised brow.

“Elara,” she said, feigning surprise, though I could see the amusement already crinkling at the corner of her eyes. “Here to tell me my joints are beyond hope?”

“Hardly,” I said, holding up a jar of thick balm and a pouch of dried elderflower. “Thought I’d deliver some medicine and check on your wards. Storm season’s not far off.”

She stepped back to let me in. The warmth hit me like a blanket—scented with dried mint, rosehips, and old woodsmoke. Bitty’s place always smelled like she’d brewed a hundred different teas in her lifetime, and honestly, she probably had.

“Set the pot on the fire while you’re at it,” she said, waving me toward the kettle. “Cold like this deserves cinnamon and orange peel.”

While the water heated, I made my way to the back corners of her small cottage, checking the wardstones tucked behind window frames and under the eaves. They were faint, flickering like an old memory, so I laid my fingers against each one and whispered the renewal sigils under my breath. Gold light shimmered briefly, steadying as the rune took hold.

Bitty watched me from her favorite armchair, a blanket over her lap and her cat curled against one hip. “You’re doing good work,” she said, after a long moment. “Folk are noticing. You’re part of the fabric now.”

I poured us each a cup of the spiced tea, then handed her the balm. “You say that like it’s a decision I’ve already made.”

“It is,” she said, taking a sip. “You’re just slow catching up to it.”

I shook my head, though I didn’t argue. Not really. “If I’m staying,” I said slowly, “I’ll need to keep bartering through the cold months. Can’t live on goodwill and root vegetables.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “Folk here may be private, but they take care of their own. And we’ve decided—unofficially, of course—that you count.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, I didn’t know how to respond. So I drank my tea, let the warmth fill me up, and promised myself I’d keep doing my best.

Back at the cottage, I stored the venison and birds in the cool dark of the cellar, hanging the meat on iron hooks and muttering a quick preservation charm over them. The cellar already held some root vegetables and a few jars of canned goods from my early preservation work, but it felt good to add protein to the stockpile.

Upstairs, I stirred the hearth coals and threw on a fresh log, then took a seat near the fire with my legs tucked under a blanket. My satchel lay beside me, half unbuckled, and I couldn’t help glancing at the silver cauldron tucked on the shelf nearby. I’d cleaned it thoroughly after the last brew session, and seeing it now made me feel oddly grounded.

As I prepared another pot of tea, I reflected on how much had changed. A few weeks ago, I was still adjusting to village life—unsure if I’d made the right choice staying. But now, after all the quiet moments, the shared stories, and the small barters, it didn’t feel like a pause in the journey anymore. It felt like a chapter worth staying for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke to the weight of silence, the kind that came with deep snow blanketing the world outside. The warmth upstairs had held through the night, barely. I could feel the edge of chill brushing my nose as I sat up and stretched, and the wooden floor beneath my bare feet was cold enough to remind me winter was no longer waiting at the edges. It had arrived.

After washing up, I layered on a thick tunic and woolen socks and padded down the stairs. The main room of the cottage was cozy, at least—yesterday’s fire had left a soft glow of warmth in the hearth that hadn’t completely faded. I stoked it back to life before preparing a simple breakfast: porridge made with dried apple slices and a drizzle of honey, warmed slowly on the stovetop.

While I ate, I sipped tea and studied the blank stone I had pulled from my rune satchel. My breath made a mist in the air upstairs, even with the stove going. I needed to address that today.

After washing up the bowl and spoon, I dressed more warmly, wrapping a scarf around my neck before gathering the supplies I would need. My chalks, my etched slates, and the rune journal I kept for personal notations. The silver of the runes still hummed faintly, their power dormant until awakened.

I started upstairs.

The first ward I set was for warmth. I chose the peak of the stairwell wall, marking it with the symbol for heat retention—three overlapping arcs with a dot in the center. I whispered the activation phrase, fingers brushing the cool surface, and felt a gentle warmth begin to rise as the rune activated. Not heat from fire, but a barrier against cold, a quiet buffer that would help trap warmth in the sleeping loft.

Next, the larder. I crouched by the thick wooden door and pressed my palm against it. My rune for stasis was more complex, a spiral encased in brackets with a pair of vertical strokes. I murmured the incantation as I drew it carefully on the inside wall with silver chalk. Cold storage, longer shelf life, and resistance to mold and rot. The rune flickered faintly when I finished and then faded to invisibility—working, but not wasting.

The stillroom was last. Moisture here could ruin everything. I stood in the doorway, looking at the rows of drying herbs, tinctures in stoppered vials, and baskets of ground powders. I chose the corner where the stone wall met the shelf and knelt. The rune for dampening moisture was old, taught to me by Naerda during a wet season in the marshes. I traced it with deliberate care—three chevrons facing downward, linked by a horizontal line—and breathed out slowly as the energy settled into the space.

I stood, stretching the tightness from my shoulders. The cottage felt different already, subtly balanced and held. It wasn’t perfection, but it would keep me comfortable and dry for the season.

Feeling more secure, I tidied my supplies and pulled on my coat, wrapping my scarf again before stepping out into the brisk midmorning light. The snow sparkled like powdered quartz underfoot, the paths packed and trodden by morning traffic. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the air was filled with the sounds of village life adjusting to the cold—snow shovels scraping, doors swinging shut against drafts, and muffled greetings exchanged under scarves.

I made my way through the snow-packed lane toward the inn.

The community building’s heavy doors creaked slightly as I entered, letting in a gust of chill. Inside, warmth wrapped around me in a gentle embrace, scented with fresh bread and roasted root vegetables. The inn was lively, but not crowded—mostly older villagers and a few tradesfolk on a break, warming themselves before heading back out.

Mira looked up from the bar and waved, her cheeks pink with warmth and her apron dusted with flour. She was laughing at something one of the older patrons had said but excused herself and walked over when she saw me approaching.

“Elara! Come sit. I’ve just pulled a stew off the hearth and there’s still fresh rye bread.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said, unwrapping my scarf and tugging off my gloves. I settled into the corner booth where we’d shared a few meals before, and she brought over a bowl of thick venison and barley stew, steam curling from the surface.

She slid into the seat across from me with her own bowl and set a carafe of cider between us. “You’ve been keeping busy.”

I smiled, dipping my spoon. “Trying. I set some wards around the cottage this morning—warmth upstairs, stasis in the larder, and dryness in the stillroom. It should hold now.”

Mira nodded with approval. “Smart thinking. The roof’s good on that cottage, but the upstairs always did get drafty. It’s been a few years since anyone really lived there full time.”

I sipped the stew, savoring the rich broth. “What’s winter like here, really? I’ve only seen hints so far. I want to be prepared.”

Mira leaned back, stretching one leg under the table. “Long. Quiet. You’ve seen the snow start already. By next week, it’ll be deeper, and most of us will be half-snowed in at times. Folk get cabin-fevered by Deepmonth, so we start little events to keep each other from going mad—soup swaps, storytelling nights, snow carving contests.”

“That sounds… cozy.”

“It can be. But it’s also when people get sick, or have accidents. Slips on the ice, smoke inhalation from bad stove vents, frozen toes from getting caught out too long.” She paused. “That last one, we’ve already had, haven’t we?”

I nodded slowly, thinking of the hunter whose wife had brought him to me with purpled fingertips.

“I’d say you’ll have a steady trickle of work, even if it’s not overwhelming. You’re filling a role we were missing, and folk are thankful for it.” She looked at me with that kind steadiness I’d come to expect. “And you’re good at it.”

I ducked my head, a little embarrassed. “I hope so. I was always with someone else before, not the one in charge.”

“Then this is your season to grow into it.”

We finished our stew in companionable silence after that, the crackle of the hearth and murmur of other diners filling the air. I felt lighter than I had in weeks—secure, supported, and gently rooted.

When I rose to leave, Mira packed a small cloth-wrapped bundle of leftover bread into my satchel. “For later,” she said with a wink. “You’ll need it.”

I smiled and thanked her, stepping back out into the pale afternoon, the sun catching on icicles like beads of light.

The wind was sharp as I stepped out into the afternoon light, my coat wrapped snug around me and my scarf tucked high. The frost clung to everything now—roof edges, fence rails, the bare limbs of trees reaching out like skeletal arms. A few birds still braved the cold, hopping from post to post, their feathers puffed thick.

I had one more stop to make before the day ended.

With my satchel slung over one shoulder, I made my way across the village paths toward Elder Harn’s cottage. The walk was peaceful, the kind of cold that kept people indoors, making the air feel still and hushed. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of burning wood followed me down the path.

Elder Harn’s home was one of the older stone cottages, low to the ground and wrapped in a thick hedge of dormant blackberry brambles. I knocked on the door and waited, my breath puffing out in clouds.

“Come in, it’s open!” a voice called, rough with age but alert.

I nudged the door open and stepped into a space that smelled strongly of liniment and dried sage. Elder Harn sat in a carved wooden chair by the hearth, a thick wool blanket across his lap and a cane resting nearby.

“Well, if it isn’t the new healer,” he said with a dry smile. “Come to check I haven’t frozen to the chair?”

“Something like that,” I replied, shrugging out of my coat and setting my satchel down by the hearth. “Thought I’d make my rounds and see how everyone’s doing. And if any runes need refreshing before the deeper cold sets in.”

He harrumphed. “A wise one, aren’t you? That old cottage of yours teaching you fast, is it?”

I smiled and reached into my satchel for my stone slate and chalk. “Naerda always said preparation is half the work. I’ve got time this afternoon if anything needs tending.”

We spent the next while walking the perimeter of his home—he leaned on me more than he’d admit—as I checked over the faint etchings on his door frames and foundation stones. Most of them were still solid, but a few needed sharpening. I worked in silence, the sound of chalk scratching stone and the distant caw of a crow overhead the only interruptions.

“You’re doing good work,” he said softly once we were back inside and I was putting away my tools. “Bitty told me you were a quiet one, but steady. That’s what we need.”

I nodded, humbled. “Thank you. I’m still finding my rhythm.”

He didn’t answer, just gave a grunt that could’ve meant anything, and offered me a wrapped piece of hard cheese from his stores. I tucked it into my satchel with thanks and promised to come back again before the month was out.

By the time I returned to my cottage, the light had turned golden and long. I set a pot of water on the hearth to boil and peeled a few of the root vegetables I’d set aside earlier in the week, adding in slices of dried mushroom and a bit of salt pork from the cellar. The stew bubbled slowly as I changed into warmer indoor clothes, the familiar scent of simmering broth already settling into the air.

Dinner was quiet and nourishing. I ate slowly, a piece of rough bread in one hand and a steaming mug of tea beside me. The warmth of the stillroom, the crackling fire, and the comfortable silence felt like a soft embrace after a long day.

Later, as I climbed the stairs to the loft and pulled the quilt up to my chin, I let myself drift on thoughts of the elders I’d met, the homes I’d stepped into, and the way the village was slowly beginning to feel like home.

Tomorrow would bring new needs, but tonight, the world was quiet and kind.

📓 Journal – Evening, Frostmorn 22nd

The snow hasn’t thickened yet, but the cold has settled into everything. Today, I visited Elder Harn—checked his runes, shared a bit of tea, and left with cheese wrapped in waxed cloth. The gratitude in his eyes said more than his words. I think he’s been lonely.

I’m starting to understand what Bitty meant about tending more than just wounds. There’s a rhythm here I’m beginning to hear—slow, steady, expectant. The village trusts in patterns: season after season, snowfall and thaw, illness and healing.

I reinforced the warmth wards and added a mildew ward near his back corner—he didn’t ask, but I smelled the damp. It felt good to use the runes for something quiet and helpful. Simple magic, like steady hands.

Tomorrow, I’ll check the others who might not ask for help but need it all the same. I need to prepare more warming salves and maybe another batch of cough lozenges. The cellar’s still holding well, and the herbs I preserved last week are ready to be blended into more teas.

I feel tired in a way that settles into the bones—but not in a bad way. I think that means I’m doing something right.