CHAPTER 3 — The Weight of Snow
The wind howled like a wounded beast across the white-buried forest. Snow clung to the crooked branches, and in the middle of that frozen silence stood a small wooden hut, its roof hunched under layers of ice. Smoke curled weakly from the chimney — thin, struggling, almost hesitant — as if even the fire inside fought to survive the winter.
Inside, the small living space was dim and warm, lit only by a trembling flame.
Rowan sat quietly on a rough stool, watching his parents.
His mother bent over a pot, stirring slowly. Steam brushed her tired face. She looked smaller now — her lively smile replaced with a hollow one that barely lifted at the corners. His father knelt in front of the hearth, hands trembling slightly as he fed wood into the fire, trying to coax life into the stubborn logs.
Rowan's gaze softened.
Their backs… they used to be straighter. Their movements used to be quicker. There was a light in their eyes he hadn't seen for weeks.
They weren't the same after the banishment.
---
Flashback — The Day After the Panchayat's Verdict
They walked for hours through the edge of the forest, snow crunching under their feet. Rowan remembered that day vividly — the humiliation, the whispers, the doors that shut in their faces.
Finally, they found a small clearing.
"This place…" his father murmured, voice tired but determined, "…is close enough to the town for supplies. Far enough to be unseen."
With no other choice, they began building.
Rowan and his father chopped trees together.
Days blurred into nights.
Nights into weeks.
It took twenty-three days to finish the hut — not large, not perfect, but a home they built with bleeding hands, raw palms, and silent tears that no one admitted shedding.
---
Back to Present
The pot lid lifted with a small clatter.
Dinner was ready.
His mother placed three wooden plates on the table. The clinking sound echoed awkwardly through the silent hut.
They sat.
They ate.
But Nobody spoke.
Rowan could still remember how his parents used to laugh over dinner, teasing each other, arguing playfully about who cooked better.
Now… there was only the soft scraping of spoons and the heavy quietness between breaths.
Rowan stared at his food, appetite fading with every passing second.
His mother noticed.
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Rowan… is the food not to your liking? I can make something else—"
He shook his head quickly.
"No, Ma. It's good. Really."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
So Rowan forced himself to eat despite the knot in his throat.
---
The Next Morning — The Snow Thickens
Outside, snow drifted harshly — thin flakes turning into thick sheets carried by bitter winds.
Rowan and his father worked through the cold, chopping wood again. The axe thudded into the logs rhythmically, each strike echoing into the forest.
While chopping woods Rowan occasionally looked towards his father. His father's breathing was uneven.
He had told his father that he can do it alone but his father told him that it would be easy and quick if they do it together, afterall looking at the atmosphere it's clear that a snow Strom can start at any moment.
"Rowan, pass me the—"
His father's sentence cut abruptly.
He swayed.
Then his knees buckled.
"Papa!"
The axe fell to the snow as Rowan rushed to him, panic spreading across his face. He shook his father's shoulders, but the man's eyes were half-closed, unfocused.
Without hesitating, Rowan crouched, lifted him onto his back, and stumbled through the storm.
The snow stung his cheeks like needles.
He reached the hut, banging on the door with his elbow.
"Ma! Open the door! Something happened to Papa!"
The door flew open. His mother's face turned pale the moment she saw her husband limp on Rowan's back.
"Lay him down — quick!"
They placed him on the bed. Rowan stepped back as his mother checked his forehead, pulse, and breathing — hands trembling.
"He's burning up…" she whispered, panic rising. "It must have been the cold — or he's been overworking…"
"Is he going to be okay?" Rowan's voice cracked.
"We need medicine," she said, already grabbing a kettle to warm water. "Go, Rowan. Quickly."
"I'll bring it!" Rowan said instantly, rushing toward the door.
"Be careful!" his mother called after him — but he was already gone.
---
Rowan reached the place where they chopped wood and immediately started swinging his axe again — harder, faster, fueled purely by fear.
He chopped until sweat mixed with snow on his face.
He chopped until his arms burned.
He chopped until he had gathered a massive pile of high-quality forest wood — the kind that sold for a good price.
The storm was worsening.
Wind roared.
Snow slashed across his skin.
But Rowan packed all the wood together, wrapped himself in layers of cloth, and pushed forward.
His eyes stung.
His fingers ached.
But he kept walking.
Finally — Melvin's shop.
A warm light glowed through the window.
Rowan staggered forward and dropped the wood in front of the door.
Melvin stepped out, shocked.
"Rowan? What on earth—" His eyes landed on the pile of wood. "What are you doing here?!"
Rowan swallowed hard, voice tight with urgency.
"Please… I don't have time. Papa is very sick. I need money to buy medicine."
Melvin stared at the wood.
He recognized it — high-grade timber found only deep inside the forest.
But instead of relief, regret flashed in his eyes.
He shook his head slowly.
"Rowan… I can't buy it."
Rowan's stomach dropped.
"What? Why? These woods are—"
"It's not about the wood…" Melvin said quietly, pointing at Rowan. "You and your family… have been banished. The panchayat forbids anyone from giving or taking anything from you."
Rowan clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles whitened.
"Then— Then what am I supposed to do…?" his voice cracked, desperate.
Melvin looked at the boy. At his trembling hands.At the desperate boy he has known for years and At the determination burning in his eyes despite the storm outside.
He bit his lip.
"…There is one option."
He opened a drawer and pulled out a folded slip of paper.
"You know Darve City, right?"
Rowan nodded.
"It's not too far. There's a trader there — he deals in wood. Since no one knows you, you can sell it to him. He's fair with prices."
Rowan took the paper with shaky hands.
"Thank you, Melvin."
He bent to lift the wood again when Melvin sighed.
"Wait."
Rowan turned.
"How will you carry all that through the storm?"
"I'll… carry it on my back."
Melvin stared at him, lips trembling slightly.
He exhaled sharply in frustration.
"There's a carriage behind my shop," he said at last, gesturing to the back door. "Take it."
Rowan's eyes widened, surprise breaking through his fear.
"Really…? Thank you so much!"
"Just…" Melvin said without looking at him, "…remove the symbol of my shop before you leave."
Rowan nodded firmly.
As he walked toward the back door, Melvin's voice stopped him again.
"…Your father is a good man."
Rowan froze.
Slowly, he looked back.
Melvin continued, voice low and heavy:
"He doesn't deserve what happened."
Rowan said nothing — there was nothing to say — and stepped through the door.
Outside, he scraped the shop's emblem off the small carriage with numb fingers. Snow blew into his face as he climbed onto the driver's seat.
Inside the shop, Melvin pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and muttered:
"…Why did I help him…"
A pause.
Then softly:
"Be safe on your way, Rowan."
---
Into the Storm
The wind roared louder.
Snow hurled across the sky like shards of crystal.
Rowan gripped the reins tightly and drove the carriage forward.
The world was nothing but white — cold, endless, merciless white — but his father was waiting. His mother was alone. And there was only one path ahead.
No matter how wild the storm became…
Rowan pushed forward.
---
Chapter end.