The days blend together, marked by the same rituals: waking early, checking on her, heading out to work, and coming back to this little shack that feels less desolate with her in it. It's an unspoken routine we've settled into, though she's still recovering and can't do much beyond resting. I've learned to anticipate her needs. Fresh water, something warm to eat, a rearranged pillow to keep her comfortable—it's become second nature. If I'm honest, I don't mind it. It gives me purpose, a reason to push through the biting cold and aching muscles every day. The part I don't let her see, though, is just how stretched I am.
One morning, I bring back a loaf of bread, some carrots, and a handful of dried meat—hard-won spoils from hours of shoveling snow and hauling firewood. She's sitting up when I return, her face a little less pale but still gaunt. "Welcome back," she says, her voice soft but stronger than before.
"Hey," I reply, setting the bundle of food on the table. "How're you feeling?"
"Better," she says, managing a faint smile.
I nod, unwrapping the food. "Good. You need to eat." I tear off a piece of bread and pass it to her, along with a small chunk of dried meat. She hesitates, looking at me with those dark, questioning eyes.
"What about you?" she asks.
"I'm fine," I say quickly, brushing off her concern. "You need it more." It's not a lie—she does need it more—but it's not the whole truth either. The bread is stale, the meat tough, and the carrots shriveled. There's barely enough for one person, let alone two, and I've been making do with less than my share for days now. She doesn't push, taking the food with a quiet "Thank you." But the way she looks at me, like she sees more than I want her to, makes my chest tighten.
Work is scarce in the village, and the few jobs I manage to snag pay little. By the time I return home each evening, my stomach is gnawing at itself, and my body feels like it's on the verge of collapse. But I make sure she doesn't notice. I bring her food, coaxing her to eat even when she insists she's not hungry. I tell her it's fine, that I've already eaten, though most nights all I have is a crust of bread or a few scraps of vegetables.
I've always been used to scraping by, but this is different. Every bite I give her feels like a small victory, a step toward her recovery. And if I'm honest, watching her regain her strength is enough to make me forget my own hunger. One evening, after I've fed her and cleaned up the shack, she speaks up. "Eric," she says softly, her voice cutting through the quiet.
I glance over at her, surprised. She's sitting up, the firelight casting a warm glow across her face. "You don't have to keep doing this," she says, her eyes searching mine. "Taking care of me, I mean. You've already done so much."
Her words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I don't know how to respond. "It's fine," I say, brushing off her concern. "You're not a burden."
"But you're working so hard," she says, her brow furrowing. "I see how tired you are."
I force a smile, though it feels strained. "That's just life around here. Hard work is part of the deal." She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push further. Instead, she looks down at her hands, her expression thoughtful.
"Thank you," she says after a long pause. "For everything."
Her gratitude should feel good, but instead, it leaves me feeling exposed, like she's seeing more of me than I'm ready to show. The nights are the hardest. After she's asleep, I sit by the fire, trying to ignore the ache in my stomach and the weight of exhaustion pulling at me. It's during these quiet moments that I find myself thinking about her more than I should.
I watch the way the firelight dances across her face, softening her features and highlighting the delicate curve of her jaw. There's something almost ethereal about her, like she doesn't quite belong in this harsh, unforgiving world. The thought makes my chest tighten, and I shake my head, trying to push it away. She's a stranger, someone I barely know. Getting attached is dangerous—for both of us. But it's hard not to.
I catch myself lingering before leaving for work. She's sitting up, wrapped in the blanket, her dark hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She looks better—still thin, but her cheeks have regained a hint of color, and her eyes are brighter.
"Are you sure you'll be okay?" I ask, my hand on the door.
She nods, offering me a small smile. "I'll be fine. You've done more than enough." Her words stick with me as I walk to the village, the frost crunching under my boots. There's something in the way she said them that makes me wonder if she feels as out of place here as I do.
The thought stays with me throughout the day, nagging at the edges of my mind as I chop firewood and haul sacks of grain. By the time I return home, I'm more exhausted than ever, but the sight of her sitting by the fire, waiting for me, makes it all worth it.
I wake early, as usual, but this time, I don't rush to get up. Instead, I sit on the floor, watching her as the first light of dawn filters through the cracks in the walls. She stirs, her dark hair falling across her face as she shifts under the blanket. And then, slowly, her eyes flutter open.
"Good morning," I say softly, unable to keep the smile off my face.
She blinks at me, her gaze unfocused at first but gradually sharpening. "Good morning," she replies, her voice still a little hoarse but stronger than before.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, moving to sit beside her.
"Better," she says, her lips curving into a faint smile.
For a moment, we sit in comfortable silence, the warmth of the fire filling the space between us.
"I was starting to think you'd sleep forever," I tease lightly, trying to keep the mood light.
She chuckles softly, the sound warm and soothing. "I guess I needed it."
"You definitely did," I say, leaning back against the wall. "Do you… remember anything yet?"
She hesitates, her smile fading as she shakes her head. "No. It's all still blank."
"That's okay," I say quickly. "Don't worry about it. Your memories will come back when they're ready."
She looks at me, her eyes searching mine. "And if they don't?"
"Then you make new ones," I say simply.
Her gaze softens, and for a moment, the space between us feels charged, like there's something unspoken lingering in the air.
"Thank you," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nod, standing and grabbing my scarf. "Get some 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. The thought of her waiting for me, of coming back to this little shack that doesn't feel so empty anymore, fills me with a warmth I haven't felt in years.
And for the first time, I realize just how much she's come to mean to me.