Warmth.
That was the first sensation that returned to her.
Not light.
Not sound.
Not memory.
Warmth.
Like blood slowly remembering how to move through veins that had slept too long beneath the cruelty of winter.
The scent of burning wood slipped into her breath—deep, ancient—dry oak surrendering slowly to the quiet hunger of flame.
[Krek…]
A faint sound.
Her eyelids trembled.
They opened slightly.
A dim orange glow drifted across her vision.
She blinked.
The world dissolved again.
Another blink.
Slowly… shapes began to gather from the darkness.
An old wooden ceiling stretched above her. Thick black beams crossed it like the ribs of some enormous sleeping creature, holding up a roof that had endured too many winters to remember.
The wind brushed softly against the outer walls of the house.
The storm was gone.
Only its fading breath remained.
The woman turned her head slowly.
The fireplace.
A small fire burned within it, patient and quiet.
Orange light crawled across the wooden floor and climbed the dark walls like living shadows.
And before the fire— a man sat with his back to her.
A dark robe hung loosely over his shoulders.
He sat in an old wooden chair, hands resting calmly upon his knees.
Watching the fire.
Not moving.
As though the flames were speaking to him in a language meant only for the lonely.
The woman tried to sit up.
Pain pulsed behind her temples.
Her fingers rose instinctively to touch her forehead. — "Ah…"
She pushed herself slightly upright.
Only then did she realize she was lying upon a large sofa.
A heavy blanket wrapped around her body. — "Where… am I?"
The man by the fire did not turn.
The wood cracked softly in the flames. — "You're awake."
His voice was low.
Calm.
Unmoved by warmth or concern.
"Where am I?" she asked again.
"My house," the man replied.
The answer came simply.
Short.
As if explanations were unnecessary things.
The woman slowly straightened her back.
The blanket shifted along her shoulders.
Her eyes wandered through the room.
Old bookshelves filled an entire wall.
Some of the books looked so ancient their covers had nearly lost all color.
Dark wooden walls.
A high ceiling.
Firelight moved across everything like breathing shadows.
"Your house…" she murmured.
Her gaze drifted upward again.
"Strange…"
she whispered softly, her beautiful eyes searching for memories that refused to return.
The man spoke again. — "How strange?"
The woman tilted her head slightly. — "I don't know… it feels like…"
She paused.
Her eyes moved around the room once more. — "…like I've been here before."
The fire cracked again.
Several seconds passed in silence.
"The storm," — the man finally said.
The woman turned toward him. — "The storm?"
"The storm brought you here." — said desmond
She rubbed her forehead slowly.
Her mind searched for memories.
But all she found were fragments.
Snow.
Wind.
Darkness.
"I… don't remember coming here — the woman said, rubbing her temple in frustration
The man continued watching the fire. — "Storms bring many things to my door."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. — "Even strangers?"
"Especially strangers." — he said while watching the fire
A faint smile appeared on the woman's lips.
She shifted slightly on the sofa.
The blanket slipped from her shoulder.
For a brief moment—
her bare breasts were revealed to the cold air of the room.
The man before the fire did not turn. — "You may want to cover yourself."
Cold air touched her skin.
The woman looked down.
A second passed.
Then—
"HEY!"
She immediately pulled the blanket to her chest.
Her face flushed red.
Her eyes widened in disbelief.
"Pervert!"
The man continued staring at the fire.
But the corner of his mouth moved slightly.
A smile so faint it almost did not exist.
The woman exhaled slowly.
She lowered her feet to the floor.
Her bare soles touched the old wooden boards.
[Krek…]
The floor answered with a tired sigh.
She stood carefully.
The blanket still wrapped around her body.
Her steps moved slowly toward the fireplace.
The closer she walked, the stronger the warmth became.
Outside, the winter wind still brushed the windows.
But the fire had created a small island of warmth inside the endless cold.
Desmond heard her footsteps.
Yet he did not turn.
The woman stopped a few steps behind his chair. — "If you hadn't opened the door last night…"
she said quietly, watching the flames. — "…I might have died out there."
"Perhaps." — The answer came without emotion.
Yet strangely—it did not sound cruel.
She glanced toward the empty chair beside the fire.
After a moment of hesitation, she sat.
Close enough to feel the fire against her face.
Close enough to see the man's profile from the side. — "You live here alone?"
"Yes."
"Aren't you lonely?" — the woman asked, her curiosity evident.
Desmond picked up another piece of wood and placed it into the fire.
The flames rose immediately.
Light danced across their faces — "I'm used to it."
The woman stared into the fire.
The wood burned slowly.
Light flickered like quiet breathing.
"Loneliness isn't something people get used to," — she said softly.
Desmond did not answer.
But his eyes shifted slightly.
She studied his face. — "You know something?"
Silence. — "You look like someone who hasn't laughed in a very long time."
Desmond finally turned.
Their eyes met.
Firelight trembled in both of them. — "And you look like someone who talks too much."
The woman laughed softly.
The sound was light.
Warm.
For the first time in a long while—
the room felt alive.
For several moments they watched the fire together.
Wind brushed the windows again.
"Why did you open the door last night?" she asked.
Desmond remained silent for a long moment.
"I heard someone knocking."
She smiled faintly. — "And you always open the door for strangers?"
"No."
"Then why last night?" — asked her
Desmond looked back into the fire. — "…I don't know."
He stood slowly.
His robe shifted around him like shadow. — "You're fortunate to be alive."
She raised an eyebrow. — "Not because of the storm?"
He shook his head slightly. — "Because you didn't die before I opened the door."
He began walking toward the dark hallway.
Then paused.
"Food is on the dining table."
The woman watched his back. — "You're not eating?"
"No." — His footsteps disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.
The wooden floor stopped creaking.
Silence returned to the house.
The fire continued its quiet breathing.
The woman remained seated.
Her gaze lingered on the dark hallway where he had vanished.
There was something in her eyes.
Something fragile.
Something close to hope.
But whatever she wanted to say—
the words never came.
After a while she stood.
The thick blanket still wrapped around her body.
She walked slowly across the great hall.
The old floor creaked beneath her steps.
[Krek…]
[Krek…]
She looked upward.
The ceiling was high.
Much higher than any ordinary home.
Massive beams stretched across it like the ribs of a sleeping giant.
Firelight moved along them slowly.
As if the house itself were breathing.
Old portraits hung along the walls.
Men with stern faces.
Noble robes.
Cold eyes that stared endlessly forward.
The ancestors of the Wolfram family.
She stopped before one portrait.
Her eyes studied the old man within the painting.
Something in his gaze made her feel small beneath it.
"So this is your house…" she whispered.
But the smile on her lips slowly faded.
The house was too quiet.
Too vast.
Too empty.
As though something had been lost here long ago.
She raised her hand slowly.
Her fingertips touched the wooden wall.
Cold.
Too cold.
Not the cold of winter.
Something deeper.
Something older.
As though the wall itself—
was holding its breath.
She withdrew her hand.
"Strange…"
But she continued walking.
Eventually she reached the dining room.
A long wooden table stood in the center.
Food had been prepared.
Warm soup.
Bread.
Water.
Simple.
But enough.
She stood there for several seconds.
Then pulled a chair.
[Krek…]
She sat.
But did not eat.
Her hands slowly moved together.
Fingers intertwined.
Palms pressed gently together.
Like someone praying.
Her head lowered.
The room was completely silent now.
Then softly—
almost like a child remembering home—
"Father…"
She breathed in.
Her voice trembled.
"Mother…"
Tears began to gather in her eyes.
"I… survived."
The first tear fell onto the wooden table.
"I survived…"
she whispered again.
As if she could hardly believe it.
More tears followed.
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time since the storm—
she allowed herself to cry.
Quietly.
Softly.
The exhausted tears of someone who had carried fear for far too long.
But The woman did not know.
This house—
was never truly silent.
Deep within its farthest chamber.
Behind locked doors.
An old wooden cabinet stood sealed in darkness.
Iron bolts bound its doors.
A black sigil stretched across the wood.
A seal made by Desmond.
Inside that darkness—
nothing moved.
Yet the house…
the walls…
the floors…
all of it belonged to her.
Through them—
she saw.
She felt.
The fire.
The stranger.
The tears falling upon the table.
And in the deepest silence of the house…
a smile awakened.
Mireya felt the stranger's sorrow through the wood, the stone, the bones of the old walls.
The storm had done its work well.
Her whisper drifted through the darkness like a memory that refused to die.
"Another heart…"
A pause.
"…wandering into my winter."
Far away in the dining room—
The woman continued to cry softly.
The fire burned warm.
But deep within the old house—
something else had begun to stir.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Waiting.