The sun peeks through the cracks in the wooden slats of my shack, casting faint beams of light across the room. I sit on the floor with my back against the wall, knees pulled to my chest, watching her. She's still asleep, her breathing steady but faint, her frame wrapped in the tattered blanket I've come to associate with her presence.
I've spent the night like this, unable to sleep. The faint sound of her stirring the evening before keeps replaying in my mind. She opened her eyes. She spoke. For the first time since I found her bleeding in the snow, she seemed alive in more than just the mechanical rise and fall of her chest.
I glance toward the corner where I've stashed the sack of stale bread and potatoes. It's not much, but it's all I have. The memory of her thin, almost fragile hand brushing against mine when I helped her sip water comes unbidden, making my chest ache.
It feels strange, this hope. I can't remember the last time I felt it, and it terrifies me.
The morning drags on. I busy myself with small chores around the shack—rearranging the firewood, patching another hole in the wall, checking the condition of her bandages. The wound seems to be healing well, which feels like a victory, even if it's a small one.
Finally, she stirs. It's subtle at first—a shift of her arm, a faint rustle of the blanket. Then her eyes flutter open.
I scramble to my feet, nearly knocking over the small stool beside me.
"Hey," I say softly, not wanting to startle her. "You're awake."
She blinks at me, her gaze unfocused. For a moment, she looks disoriented, as if trying to place where she is.
"How… how do you feel?" I ask, kneeling beside her.
Her voice is a whisper, barely audible. "Tired."
I nod, offering a small smile. "That makes sense. You've been through a lot. Do you remember what happened?"
She frowns, her brows knitting together. The effort seems to sap her energy, and she shakes her head weakly.
"No," she murmurs. "I don't remember anything."
Her words hang in the air, heavy and unsettling. My mind races. Who is she? Where did she come from? And why was she out there, bleeding and alone?
I force myself to push those thoughts aside. "That's okay," I say gently. "Don't worry about it right now. Your memories will come back when they're ready. For now, you're safe here. You can stay as long as you need."
Her eyes flicker with something—gratitude, maybe—and she nods ever so slightly before closing her eyes again.
"Get some rest," I say, pulling the blanket up to her chin. "You need it."
After making sure she's comfortable, I grab my scarf and head for the door. The air outside is sharp and cold, stinging my cheeks as I step into the morning light.
The village is already stirring, the familiar sounds of carts creaking and villagers chatting filling the air. My footsteps crunch against the frost-covered ground as I make my way toward the job board.
The idea of leaving her alone makes my stomach twist, but I need to work. She needs food, proper food, not the scraps I've been cobbling together. And I can't afford to let the villagers think I'm slacking off—especially not when my survival depends on their odd jobs.
Still, there's a strange lightness in my chest as I walk through the village square. It's subtle, like the first rays of sunlight breaking through a cloudy sky, but it's there. For the first time in years, I feel… not alone.
The thought makes me pause. I glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see her standing behind me, even though I know she's back at the shack. I shake my head, trying to dispel the feeling, but it lingers.
The morning's work is grueling as usual. The first job is clearing snow from the blacksmith's roof, a task that leaves my hands red and raw despite the gloves I wear. The blacksmith doesn't say much, just grunts in approval when I finish and tosses me a small coin.
The next job is hauling sacks of grain for the baker. My arms ache with every trip, the heavy sacks threatening to topple me over, but I keep going. The baker watches with a critical eye, her arms crossed over her flour-dusted apron.
"Faster," she snaps when I pause to catch my breath.
I grit my teeth and push through, reminding myself that every coin counts.
By the time I finish, my body feels like it's been wrung out and left to dry. The baker hands me a small loaf of bread as payment, and I clutch it tightly as I make my way back to the shack.
When I return, the first thing I do is check on her. She's still asleep, her face peaceful in the soft glow of the firelight. I set the bread on the small table and kneel beside her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.
"You're going to be okay," I whisper, more to myself than to her.
I pull out the small pot I've been using and heat some water over the fire, tearing the bread into small pieces to make a simple broth. It's not much, but it's better than nothing.
When the broth is ready, I sit beside her and gently shake her shoulder. Her eyes flutter open, and she looks at me with a mix of confusion and weariness.
"Here," I say, holding the cup to her lips. "It's not much, but it'll help."
She sips slowly, her hands trembling as she takes the cup from me. Watching her, I feel an odd mix of relief and concern. She's awake, but she's still so weak.
The days pass in a similar rhythm. I wake early, check on her, and head out to work. Each evening, I return with whatever food or coins I can scrounge up and do my best to care for her.
On the second night, I notice her watching me as I clean up the shack. Her gaze is quiet but piercing, as if she's trying to piece together who I am and why I'm helping her.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks softly, her voice still hoarse.
The question catches me off guard. I glance at her, unsure how to answer.
"Because you needed help," I say simply.
She doesn't respond, but her eyes linger on me for a moment before she turns away.
By the end of the week, her strength has improved enough that she can sit up on her own. She still doesn't remember anything about her past—her name, her family, where she came from—but she seems more at ease.
I try not to think about what will happen when her memories return. I tell myself I'm just helping her because it's the right thing to do, but deep down, I know it's more than that. I've grown used to having her here, to the quiet companionship she brings.
It's selfish, I know, but part of me hopes her memories don't come back too soon.
On the sixth day, I wake to the sound of her voice.
"Good morning," she says, her tone soft but steady.
I blink in surprise, my eyes adjusting to the dim light of the shack. She's sitting up, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her gaze meeting mine.
"Good morning," I reply, unable to keep the smile off my face. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," she says, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Thanks to you."
For a moment, we sit in silence, the warmth of the fire filling the space between us.
"Do you… remember anything?" I ask hesitantly.
Her smile fades, and she shakes her head. "No. It's like… there's a wall in my mind, and I can't get past it."
"That's okay," I say quickly. "Don't push yourself. The memories will come back when they're ready."
She nods, her expression softening. "Thank you. For everything."
"You don't have to thank me," I say, standing and grabbing my scarf. "Just focus on getting better. You can stay here as long as you need."
Her eyes widen slightly, as if my words surprise her.
"Now, rest," I say, adjusting the blanket around her. "I'll be back later."
As I step outside, the cold air hits me, but it doesn't bother me as much as it usually does. For the first time in years, I feel like I have something to look forward to.