Harold was dreaming of snow. Not the pure, white snow, but a brown, viscous slush that reeked of iron and rotting blood. He was sinking into the wooden floor of the hut, and the hands that searched for an exit felt nothing but twisting, living branches.

  Every time he tried to pull himself up, he heard Mary’s screams fading into the distance and saw Alison’s face bleeding. The axe in his hand felt like lead, dragging him down; he tried to throw it away, but it remained fused to his palm as if it were part of his own flesh.

  Harold woke up in the darkness, sweat clinging to his body despite the biting cold inhabiting the room. He sat for a moment, catching his ragged breath, staring at his hands in the gloom and then at the shadows around him, verifying that what he saw was merely a nightmare. He stood up slowly, his joints creaking, and felt the doorframe with his rough hands.

  He passed by Alison’s room. She was sleeping peacefully. He stared at her for a few seconds until his breathing steadied, then dragged his feet toward the kitchen.

  There, the embers in the stove were struggling to stay lit, emitting a rhythmic hiss. Mary was there, scrubbing the same plates over and over. Harold stood beside her in silence; they exchanged glances, then stared together out the window at the white snow that hid the blackness beneath.

  "Good morning." Alison walked in, rubbing her eyes with unsteady steps.

  Harold and Mary immediately forced their features into a wide smile fit for their little girl. "Wash your face, then come have breakfast," Mary said, pointing toward the basin.

  The family gathered around the table for their modest breakfast: pieces of stale bread and warm water. Throughout the meal, Alison chattered enthusiastically. "Do you know, Mother? Snowdrops are a sign of spring; they can grow even in the snow."

  Mary listened, resting her head on her hands. "Oh, and who taught you that?"

  Alison stood beside Harold and raised her hands as if presenting a masterpiece. "This beautiful person is the one who taught me!"

  Harold smiled, but his hand began to tremble noticeably as he reached for a piece of bread. Mary let out a laugh that broke at the end, while Alison continued her chatter.

  Alison fell silent for a moment, and Harold turned to her.

  "Can I go with you to the forest today? Please," Alison asked.

  Harold stopped chewing. His features froze, sweat began to bead on his forehead, and his breathing grew heavy. "No. You are not coming, and do not argue with me," he spat the words with a sharp tone, his voice cracking midway through.

  Alison opened her mouth to respond, wanting to defend her wish, but her tongue—"B-b-b..."—the letters stumbled behind her teeth. She pressed her lips together so hard they turned white. She lowered her head and stared at her plate, the light in her eyes dying out as her smile turned into an involuntary frown.

  Harold froze, trying to say something, but the words were imprisoned in his throat. Hurriedly, he snatched his axe and walked out, slamming the door with a force that echoed through the hut. Outside, he stood alone, staring at the axe covered in dried blood and scratches, while Alison’s face replayed in his mind.

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  After a while, Harold returned. He entered quietly, set his axe down, and sat beside Alison, picking up her wooden horse to play with her. "Forgive me... you can come. Just don't be upset with me."

  Alison jumped up excitedly. "Really?"

  Harold nodded. As she rushed to get her coat, Mary, who had been dusting and cleaning the house, dropped what she was doing and sat near Harold. She looked at his trembling hand, still holding the wooden horse, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "She understands... and even if she didn't, there’s no need to take her... if you do, she’ll only get in your way, and you know that better than anyone," Mary whispered, trying to persuade him.

  Harold raised his hand to Mary’s face, and she fell silent. "There’s no need to worry. I’ll take care of us," Harold replied. Mary stared at him, trying to convince him once more.

  "I said don't worry, Mary," Harold looked at her firmly.

  Mary sighed. "Then take care of yourselves and don't be gone long, please."

  Harold nodded.

  Alison brought her coat. "I couldn't put it on."

  Mary stood and helped Alison into her coat. Her movements were so firm that Alison almost fell, and she put her hands behind her for balance, but Mary gripped her shoulders and steadied her on the floor. Mary looked into Alison’s eyes, then zipped her jacket. "Take care of yourself—and of him," Mary signaled toward Harold. Alison nodded vigorously.

  They went out, his axe in the cart. He began pulling the cart while Alison walked beside him. They passed some villagers on their way.

  "L-l-l-look, it’s the f-f-f-failure and her father," some children laughed as they passed Alison. Her face darkened, and her fists tightened against the hem of her dress, but she didn't speak.

  Harold watched them leave out of the corner of his eye. "Don't worry, they’re just fools." He placed his hand on Alison for a moment, then pulled it back to continue pulling the cart.

  They left the village and began ascending the trail; it was a steep slope. Harold gasped for air as he pulled the cart. Alison fell behind and went to the back of the cart, pushing it from behind.

  The mountain was silent—a dominating silence, broken only by breaths turning into white steam and the wheels of the cart groaning over the frozen mud. They reached a dense cluster of oak trees.

  "Alright, let's stop here." Harold halted the cart, and Alison came to his side.

  Harold chose a tree that wasn't too large in diameter. Alison climbed into the cart and sat down. Harold pulled his axe and began chopping the oak trunk with strikes that echoed through the forest. His blows occasionally missed the spot he intended.

  Alison watched him, chattering about random topics. Harold stopped suddenly and turned toward her, leaning in. "Alison, darling, please... can you give me some quiet?" he whispered with heavy breath and wide eyes.

  Alison nodded and went silent immediately. With the final blow, the oak fell with a shriek that shook the area. "Whoa, it fell!" Alison cheered, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle her voice.

  Harold began trimming the large branches, while Alison used a wide hunting knife to cut the thin twigs in a silent harmony. As the shadows moved, a harsh scraping sound came from between the trees. Harold froze, the air in his lungs feeling heavier than water.

  A massive wolf emerged, its fur grey and teeth glistening under the faint light. In a flash, it lunged toward Alison. In an instinctive act, Harold leaped and threw his body over the wolf. He fought the claws and teeth, striking it with the back of the axe until he brought it to the ground. Harold stood over it, raising the axe to end its life.

  Alison crawled through the mud, her face streaked with dirt, and clung to her father’s leg with a grip so tight she could feel the pulse in his veins.

  "Stop," she said in a raspy, barely audible voice, tears carving paths through her pale face. The axe stopped, leaving only a small gash in the wolf’s head.

  "Alison, what are you doing!" Harold lifted her by her shoulder, shaking her for an answer, but she was trembling silently, her eyes wide. The wolf retreated, staggering toward the trees, leaving a red trail behind, as its three cubs emerged to whine beside it. Harold placed his hand on Alison’s head for a long moment in silence, then took her hand to lead her toward the cart