The world doesn't stop, no matter what's happening in your little corner of it. Morning light creeps in through the cracks of my patched roof, cold and gray like every other winter day. The air inside my shack is heavy, carrying the faint smell of damp wood and cloth. I wake up stiff, my back protesting after another night of sleeping on the hard ground, but my eyes immediately land on her.
She's still lying there, unmoving, her black hair fanning out against the makeshift cot. It's almost eerie how still she is, her skin pale enough to blend in with the snow outside. For a moment, I think maybe she's stopped breathing, and panic grips my chest.
But no, her chest rises and falls, shallow and unsteady but steady enough. Relief floods through me, but it doesn't last long. There's work to do, promises to keep. I can't let myself get distracted.
I pull on my threadbare jacket, its patches doing little to block out the cold, and slip out the door. The icy wind bites at my face, a reminder that winter has no mercy for anyone, least of all someone like me.
The village is already stirring to life, smoke rising from chimneys, voices carrying over the crisp morning air. No one notices me as I walk through the muddy streets, heading toward the physician's house. That's fine. I'm used to being invisible.
When I knock on the door, it creaks open just enough for the physician's scowl to appear. He's not a kind man, but I don't need kindness. Just fairness.
"About time," he grumbles, stepping aside to let me in. "The garden's a mess. Start there."
I nod, keeping my head down, and head to the back. The garden is overgrown, weeds choking the few plants that managed to survive the frost. My fingers are numb by the time I finish pulling the stubborn roots from the frozen soil.
"Next," he says when I return, handing me a broom. "The porch."
The morning drags on like that, each task as tedious as the last. Cleaning, sweeping, fixing things that should've been replaced years ago. My back aches, my hands sting from the cold, and my stomach grumbles loudly enough to embarrass me.
Still, I push through. Every scratch, bruise, and ache is worth it if it means keeping her alive.
When the sun starts to dip below the horizon, the physician finally waves me off. "Be here early tomorrow," he says, not bothering to thank me.
The walk back to my shack feels longer than usual. My legs are heavy, my body sore, but I force myself to keep moving.
When I step inside, the warmth—if you can call it that—of my tiny shelter greets me. She's still there, her black hair tangled and wild, her face as pale as the moonlight filtering through the cracks in the wall.
I kneel beside her, checking the bandages I made from the last scraps of my spare shirt. The wound is still raw, but it's not bleeding as much anymore. I replace the cloth, careful not to jostle her too much.
The second day starts the same way. Cold air, a stiff body, and her, lying on the cot like some kind of fragile porcelain doll. I leave her again, heading to the physician's house before the village fully wakes up.
The tasks are harder today. My muscles protest every movement, the cold biting deeper than the day before. But the real weight isn't physical. It's the constant nagging thought that I left her alone.
I catch myself wondering if she's awake yet. If she's still alive. The image of her pale face haunts me as I scrub the wooden steps of the physician's porch, my hands raw and trembling.
By the time I'm done, I can barely stand. I shuffle back to my shack, each step heavier than the last.
When I push the door open, the first thing I notice is how still everything is. My heart skips a beat as I rush to her side, but she's still breathing. It's faint, but it's there.
That night, though, everything changes.
Her breathing grows ragged, her face flushing red despite the freezing air. Sweat beads on her forehead, soaking the cloth I've been using to clean her wound. My chest tightens with fear as I press the back of my hand to her forehead. She's burning up.
"Come on," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears. "Don't do this."
I grab a fresh cloth, dampening it with the melted snow I keep in a pot near the fire, and press it to her forehead. It doesn't help much. Her breathing stays shallow, her body trembling despite the heat radiating from her skin.
The memories hit me like a punch to the gut. My parents, their faces pale and slick with sweat as the fever took them. The helplessness I felt, the anger, the crushing weight of loss.
I can't let that happen again.
I spend the whole night by her side, wiping her forehead, whispering words of comfort that feel hollow even as I say them. My body aches for rest, but I refuse to let myself close my eyes.
By the time the sun rises, the fever breaks. Her breathing steadies, her face losing its fiery flush. Relief washes over me, so strong that it leaves me shaking.
The third day is a blur.
I drag myself to the physician's house, my body screaming in protest. The tasks are the same—sweeping, cleaning, fixing—but my mind is elsewhere. Every second I'm away from her feels like an eternity.
The physician notices. He doesn't say much, just watches me with an expression that's more curious than anything else.
"You look like you're about to drop," he says when I nearly stumble while raking leaves.
"I'm fine," I mutter, though my voice lacks conviction.
After a long silence, he sighs. "Enough. Go home. You've done enough."
His words catch me off guard, but I don't argue. I can't.
When I get back to my shack, I check on her immediately. Her fever is gone, her breathing steady, but she's still pale and motionless.
I sit beside her, my body too tired to move. My stomach growls loudly, a sharp reminder that I haven't eaten in almost two days.
I glance at her, the makeshift bandages on her wound, the soft rise and fall of her chest. She's alive, but she's not out of the woods yet. And if I collapse from hunger, who's going to take care of her?
Grabbing my knife, I stand. The forest isn't far, and with any luck, I might be able to catch something. Or at least find enough firewood to trade for food.
Before I leave, I make sure the door is secure. I glance back at her one last time, the flickering firelight casting shadows across her face.
The snow crunches under my boots as I step outside, the cold biting at my skin. The forest looms in the distance, dark and uninviting, but it's my only option.
With my knife in hand, I begin the slow, steady walk toward the trees, each step heavy with the weight of what I've taken on.