The first snow came early that year, dusting the village of Meerfeld in ghost-white powder. Liora had never liked the cold. It reminded her of stillness and silence, like the hush that fell over the orchard before the last apple dropped. But that winter was different. It came not like a quiet guest but like a siege, creeping into every crack and corner of their small cottage.
The storm came with shrieking winds that howled through the wooden slats of their roof. Snow piled so high it buried fences and blocked the door. Their food stores, already meager, dwindled by the day. Bread was stretched with root flour. The water bucket had to be thawed every morning. Liora's small hands ached from the cold as she held it close to the fire.
Linna's cough worsened. Her small body rattled with every breath, and her cheeks grew hollow despite the spoonfuls of honeyed tea Liora coaxed into her mouth. Their mother tried to hide the fear in her eyes, but at night Liora heard her crying in the dark, muffled beneath her shawl.
Their father, once strong and broad as an oak, limped home one evening dragging a bloodied leg behind him. He had gone out to hunt in the woods and slipped on the ice, slicing his thigh open on a hidden branch. The wound festered, and he grew pale and feverish. Still, he tried to keep working. Tried to chop wood with trembling arms and set traps with numb fingers. But the strength was leaving him.
They burned the old rocking chair. Then the shelves. Then the shutters. Anything to keep the fire going. Smoke choked the house, and ash clung to their clothes, but it was warmth.
Liora held Linna every night, wrapping her in blankets and whispering stories about the sky kingdom where children played on clouds and never felt cold. She told her about guardian angels with silver wings and how one would come for her if she closed her eyes and listened to the wind.
Linna, always dreamy, believed her. "Will she have ribbons?" Linna asked weakly, her small voice hoarse.
"Yes," Liora said, brushing the damp hair from her sister's brow. "yellow ones. Like the sun."
Linna smiled faintly. "Like mine."
It was a small ribbon, sky-blue and frayed at the edges. Linna tied it in her hair every morning without fail, even when she was too weak to stand. Liora often found it on the floor and kept it safe for her.
One morning, the wind was screaming through the cracks again. Liora opened her eyes and felt the cold immediately, it had crept under the blankets like a thief. She turned to Linna.
Her sister was still. Her small hands lay folded on her chest, the ribbon clutched between her fingers. Her eyes were open, gazing at the frost-covered window, her lips parted as if she had been singing.
"Linna?" Liora touched her cheek. It was ice.
The scream that followed was not a child's. It was something older, something primal. Liora clutched her sister, rocking back and forth, begging her to wake up, to smile, to hum one of her nonsense songs.
Their mother collapsed that evening, the fever burning through her body. Their father stopped speaking. He sat by the hearth staring at the coals, his bandaged leg seeping dark blood. Two nights later, both were gone.
The cottage was silent.
When the snow began to melt a little, Nan Theda came looking. She found Liora curled in a blanket, her face bruised with frostbite, cradling the lifeless bodies of her family. The blue ribbon was still wrapped around her wrist.
She didn't speak for days. Just stared out the window where Linna had looked. Her lips moved sometimes, but no sound came.
Then came the nightmares.
In her dreams, the storm still howled. Snowflakes like ash fell from the sky, and through the white curtain she saw Linna standing beneath a great blossom tree. The petals were frozen, tinged with pink, and Linna stood barefoot, her dress fluttering in a wind that didn't touch her.
"Liora," she would call.
Liora would run, but her feet sank into snow. No matter how far she reached, Linna was always just beyond the next drift.
"Come home," Liora would cry.
But Linna only shook her head and whispered, "You have to go, Liora. Find your roots. I'll wait by the tree."
And then she would vanish, swallowed by the snow.
Liora always woke with tears frozen on her cheeks and the ribbon wound tight in her fist.
Spring was months away. But somewhere deep inside her, a seed had already been planted. A part of her knew, though she couldn't name it yet: the old life was gone. Something new was coming.
And the world would never be the same.