Then Silas Thorne heard the sound he had been dreading more than anything else: the sudden, terrifying silence of his stove.

The final piece of firewood had burned to ash.

Silas stared at the fading embers, unable to accept what was happening.

“No,” he muttered. “It can’t be over yet.”

He searched the entire house, opening cupboards, checking storage rooms, and looking through every corner that might contain something useful.

There was nothing left.

No firewood. No coal. Not even scraps of timber.

And beyond his windows, the world had disappeared beneath enormous mountains of snow.

With nowhere else to turn, Silas grabbed an ax and began smashing one of his expensive dining chairs. He carried the broken pieces to the stove and threw them inside.

The flames returned.

But the furniture burned much faster than he had expected.

By the fifth day, every piece of imported furniture he could sacrifice had been destroyed. By the seventh, he was pulling doors off their frames to keep the fire alive.

By the ninth day, he had begun tearing up the wooden floorboards.

Oakhaven was slowly freezing to death.

Families crowded together beneath whatever blankets they could find. Children cried from hunger and cold until their little bodies became too exhausted to make another sound.

The wind continued howling outside, shaking walls and burying entire buildings beneath fresh layers of snow.

But high above the town, sheltered among the limestone bluffs, Alara was still surviving.

Her supply of firewood remained dry. Thick animal furs protected her from the freezing temperatures, while the surrounding stone walls helped maintain a more consistent warmth than the exposed houses below.

Yet the fact that she was safe brought her little comfort.

Every evening, she stood near the entrance of her shelter, looking toward the place where Oakhaven should have been.

She thought about the young Mercer family.

She remembered elderly Mrs. Whitcomb, whose fragile hands had trembled even before winter arrived.

And despite everything Silas Thorne had done, she found herself wondering whether he was still alive.

“Please, let them make it through,” she whispered into the darkness.

On the twelfth night, the storm returned with a terrifying burst of strength.

Alara barely managed to sleep.

When she finally drifted off, she dreamed of her husband standing across a frozen field, calling her name through the wind.

She tried to reach him, but the distance between them never seemed to grow smaller.

When she suddenly awakened, tears had soaked the rabbit fur beneath her face.

For several moments, she remained motionless, listening.

Then she noticed something strange.

The wind had stopped.

Not weakened. Not slowly faded away.

It had disappeared completely.

The sudden silence was so unnatural that it frightened her more than the storm itself.

Alara hurried toward the entrance of her shelter.

What she found outside was an enormous wall of snow blocking the opening.

She quickly pulled on her thickest furs, grabbed a shovel, and began digging through the frozen mass.

The work was exhausting. Snow repeatedly collapsed around her arms, forcing her to clear the same section several times.

Nearly an hour passed before her shovel finally broke through the other side.

A brilliant shaft of sunlight poured into the opening.

Alara pushed herself forward and climbed onto the massive snowdrift.

But the moment she looked toward the valley, her heart sank.

Oakhaven was gone.

The town she remembered had disappeared beneath an endless white landscape.

Only the tops of a few rooftops and chimneys remained visible above the snow.

Thin trails of smoke rose from a handful of houses.

Most of the chimneys stood completely silent.

“Oh, dear God,” she whispered.

She understood immediately what that silence meant.

People were still trapped down there.

Some might be injured. Others could be starving or freezing, waiting for someone to come through the snow.

Alara couldn’t simply return to her shelter and pretend she hadn’t seen it.

She gathered as much dry oak as she could carry, along with extra furs, food, and emergency supplies.

Then she secured her handmade snowshoes and prepared to descend toward the buried town.

As she tightened the straps, a memory of her grandfather came rushing back.

He had once told her something she had never forgotten.

“Staying alive means nothing if you abandon everyone else to die.”

Alara looked toward the distant rooftops.

Then she started walking.

The journey down the mountain was brutal.

Deep snow swallowed her legs with every step, and the weight of her supplies made the descent even harder.

It took nearly two exhausting hours before she finally reached the first buildings.

Her first stop was the Mercer family’s home.

When she managed to get inside, she found a mother and her two children lying beneath blankets that had become stiff with ice.

All three were barely conscious.

Alara immediately set down her supplies and went to work.

She cleared the stove, gathered dry wood, and managed to bring the fire back to life.

Then she wrapped the children in additional furs and helped their mother move closer to the warmth.

The woman slowly opened her eyes.

“Mrs. Vance?” she whispered weakly.

Alara knelt beside her and gently took her hand.

“I’m here, Ruth. You’re not by yourself anymore.”

Ruth’s face crumpled, and tears began running down her cheeks.

She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

Alara stayed long enough to make sure the family had heat, enough supplies to survive, and a way to call for help if necessary.

Then she gathered her remaining belongings and continued through the snow.

There was one more place she needed to visit.

The mansion belonging to Silas Thorne.

Reaching it was another difficult struggle. Much of the surrounding property had vanished beneath the snow, but Alara eventually found an upper window that she could access.

She climbed inside and carefully made her way downstairs.

The sight that greeted her was almost unbelievable.

The elegant rooms had been completely destroyed.

Expensive furniture had been reduced to splintered wood. Doors were missing from their frames, and sections of the polished floor had been torn away.

The mansion no longer looked like the home of a wealthy businessman.

It looked like a place that had been slowly dismantled by desperate people fighting to stay alive.

The temperature inside was brutally cold.

Then Alara noticed someone lying beside the dead stove.

It was Silas Thorne.

He was wrapped in what appeared to be a large carpet, his body curled close to the empty fireplace.

His eyes were closed.

His face had turned an alarming shade of pale.

Alara hurried toward him and dropped to her knees.

“Mr. Thorne?”

He didn’t respond.

She leaned closer.

“Silas, can you hear me?”

There was no movement.

She reached toward him, trying to determine whether he was still breathing.

Then something beneath the carpet caught her attention.

A tiny hand.

A child’s hand, almost completely hidden beneath the frozen fabric.

Alara froze.

She carefully pulled the carpet back, exposing the small figure lying beside Silas.

And the sight made her gasp.

Silas Thorne hadn’t been fighting for his life alone.

A little boy was lying motionless beside him.

His small body was wrapped in the same carpet, his face pale from the cold.

Alara stared at them in horror.

Neither Silas nor the child appeared to be breathing.