The wind had grown quieter.
Snow fell like whispers, blanketing the world in silence. The adventurer walked, boots crunching softly under the white weight of winter. He had not spoken a word since the mountain pass. Since the night when the siblings he failed to save had slipped away into the cold.
Their faces remained, one with a bright laugh, the other with tiny hands reaching out, believing that someone would come.
He walked slower now, as if every step carried their weight.
A trail led him to a narrow path cutting through a stretch of pine. He had no destination, only a direction. Forward.
But sometimes, forward felt like dragging the past behind him.
He reached an abandoned chapel standing crooked by the cliffside. Half-covered in snow, its bell tower leaned, broken. He stepped inside and found dust, cold stone, and silence. Candles long melted. Pews cracked with time. At the altar, a wooden statue of some old goddess watched over no one.
He sat near the doorway, sheltering from the wind.
And for a while, he simply stared into the floor.
Then a voice, soft as falling snow, spoke from behind him.
"You look like someone who left their soul behind."
He turned.
There stood a woman, older than him, wrapped in thick, patchworked robes. Her hair was silver, braided down her back. Her eyes were like a mirror: quiet, weathered, kind.
"Are you the keeper of this place?" he asked.
"I am only its guest. Like you."
She sat beside him, placing down a basket of dried herbs and roots.
"You've walked far," she said, eyeing his torn cloak and frostbitten fingers.
"I've walked too far," he answered.
"Too far to go back?"
"No," he said, eyes lowering. "Too far to remember who I was when I started."
She didn't speak for a while.
The wind howled outside, rattling the broken glass.
He closed his eyes.
"I watched two children die," he said. "I tried to save them. I gave them my coat. I held them. I tried… but winter was stronger than me."
The woman did not gasp. She did not flinch. Her voice, when it came, was soft as snow again.
"Winter always takes more than it gives."
He clenched his hands, feeling the ghost of their small fingers within his own.
"I never even asked their names."
She nodded slowly. "Because you didn't need names to care. Or to mourn."
They sat in silence again. The chapel seemed to breathe with them.
Then, quietly, she placed something into his palm, a small wooden carving of a bird, wings spread.
"It's not much," she said. "But it's something. Sometimes, that's enough."
He looked at it. It was carved with such tenderness, each feather shaped by patience.
She looked at him, her voice turning lower now, heavier.
"I once lost a child in winter, too. Long ago. My hands couldn't hold back the cold either. But pain," she said, "pain does not mean failure. Grief does not mean weakness. It means you were there."
The words wrapped around his heart like a thread.
He clutched the bird.
"Even the lost will find their way…" she whispered, "if someone remembers their name."
His breath caught.
That line. He had heard it before. In the song from the lake. The song that wandered with the wind.
His eyes stung.
And he cried.
For the very first time in his journey, he let it all out. The faces. The cold. The questions. The silence. Everything he held inside broke like thawing ice, spilling down his cheeks.
He did not weep like a warrior or a hero. He wept like a boy. Like someone who had carried sorrow for too long without knowing what to do with it.
The woman placed a hand over his shoulder.
And in that broken chapel, with winter howling outside, he learned something he hadn't known until now—
Sometimes the world does not need you to be strong.
Sometimes, it just needs you to be honest.
When the tears stopped, the wind had settled.
He rose slowly, placing the wooden bird in his coat.
"Thank you," he said.
"Where will you go now?" the woman asked.
"I don't know," he said. "But I want to find the names of those who were lost. I want to remember."
The woman nodded. "Then may your steps leave warmth behind, even in the coldest snow."
He stepped out into the white silence, a little heavier, a little lighter.
And not far from the chapel, he saw someone standing in the snow.
A girl. No older than ten. Cloaked in thick furs. Holding a stick like a walking staff.
She turned to him.
"You're the one who tried to save the others," she said.
He blinked.
"I saw you… by the cliffs. I was hiding. I didn't help. I was afraid. But I saw you. And I followed you here."
She looked up with tearful eyes.
"Can I come with you?"
The question struck him deeply.
He knelt.
"You don't have to be afraid anymore," he said.
"I'm not," she whispered. "Not if you're here."
He stood, and for the first time in days, offered a smile.
"Then walk beside me. But remember, I don't have a name yet."
"Then I'll call you…" she paused, smiling back, "Mr. Adventurer."
He looked ahead.
And took the first step forward.
The snow fell, soft and endless.
And far behind them, the chapel stood like a quiet prayer carved into stone.