Days passed, and Viktor's routine became a monotony of writing, eating,
and sleeping. The villagers, with their rugged faces and calloused hands,
seemed to embody a truth he could only aspire to. One morning, as he was
struggling to find the right words, a figure appeared at his door. Anna,
a widowed woodcutter, stood before him, her hands raw from labor.
"What brings you to this place?" she asked, her voice low and husky.
Viktor hesitated, unsure of how to respond. "I'm writing a novel," he
said finally.
Anna raised an eyebrow. "Scribbling, you mean?"
Viktor felt a spark of defensiveness, but Anna's words struck a chord. He
showed her his notes, and she scanned them with a critical eye. "You
think you can capture the truth of human nature with words?" she asked.
Viktor nodded, though he felt a growing sense of doubt.
Anna's gaze was piercing. "You think freezing here proves your worth?"
Viktor shook his head. "No, but the cold sharpens the mind."
Anna's expression was enigmatic. "I'll leave a log by your door each
dawn," she said. "You can leave a page in return."
Viktor agreed, though he knew she wouldn't read his words. She would burn
them for warmth, and he would be left with the bitter taste of rejection.
Yet, he couldn't help but feel drawn to Anna's rugged beauty and her
unflinching honesty.
As the days turned into weeks, Viktor's manuscript grew, but his
certainty crumbled. He began to question the value of his work, the worth
of his words. The candle, once a beacon of inspiration, now seemed a
faint, flickering flame, threatening to be extinguished by the cold winds
of doubt.