Winter had settled fully over Hollowford.
Snow lay in uneven drifts along the road and against the walls of the houses, packed hard where boots and cart wheels had passed, softer where no one bothered to walk. The air inside the house was cold enough that Eryk's breath showed faintly when he woke, but not cold enough to hurt. That difference mattered.
He lay for a while listening to the quiet. The fire had burned low during the night, but it had not gone out. The walls creaked once as the roof shifted under the weight of snow. Somewhere nearby, a board ticked as it cooled.
He turned onto his side and watched the thin gray light creep through the shutters.
This was the part of winter he liked best. The hours before the village woke, when everything felt paused and whole at the same time. The world was quieter in winter. Sounds carried farther, but there were fewer of them. You could hear what mattered.
He pulled on his clothes and boots and moved carefully so the floor would not complain too loudly. His hands were clumsy at first, fingers stiff from the cold, but they warmed as he worked the laces tight.
In the main room, his mother was already awake. She stood near the hearth, coaxing the fire back with practiced movements. A kettle rested close by, waiting.
"You're up early," she said, not looking at him.
"So are you."
She smiled faintly at that and handed him a cup. The water was warm enough to take the edge off the cold, nothing more.
Outside, the yard was bright with snow. The sky was a pale, washed-out blue that promised clear weather and bitter cold. Frost clung to the fence posts, tracing the grain of the wood in white lines. Smoke rose from the chimneys in straight columns and lingered low before thinning.
His father was already at the woodpile. The axe struck cleanly, the sound sharp and final in the cold air. Eryk took the split pieces and stacked them by the wall, fitting them together so they would not shift when the wind pressed in later.
"Careful with that one," his father said once, nodding at a cracked log. "It'll split wrong if you rush it."
Eryk slowed and adjusted his grip. The log broke where it was meant to. He added it to the stack and brushed snow from his hands.
They worked without speaking for a time. The rhythm of it settled into him easily. Lift. Place. Step back. Check the balance. Work like this did not need words.
When the pile was finished, Eryk carried water from the pump. The handle groaned as it always did in deep winter, iron protesting against ice. He leaned into it with his weight, careful not to jerk it too fast. The bucket filled slowly, the surface skinning over almost at once.
Inside the shed, the animals stirred. Their breath fogged the air. Eryk moved among them, pouring water, checking feed, steadying a nervous goat with a hand on its flank. He knew their habits and moods. He knew which one would bite if startled and which would follow him if he let it.
This was work, but it did not feel like punishment.
By the time they went back inside, the house was warmer. The kettle steamed. His mother had thickened the porridge more than usual, stretching what they had with careful additions. It was not much, but it was hot, and it filled the room with a simple, comforting smell.
They ate together, close to the hearth. Eryk sat with his back against the wall, bowl balanced on his knees. The warmth soaked into him slowly, reaching his fingers last. He watched the firelight move across the stones and felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest.
"Snow held well last night," his father said. "Road should be clear enough if the wind stays down."
His mother nodded. "Good. We'll need flour soon."
They spoke of ordinary things. Supplies. Neighbors. The weather. Nothing felt urgent. Nothing pressed.
Afterward, Eryk pulled on his coat again and stepped outside. The sun had climbed higher, bright enough now to make the snow glitter. The road beyond the house was empty, its surface marked with tracks that told familiar stories. A sled dragged toward the mill earlier. A pair of boots heading to the fields and back again.
He followed the fence line, checking for damage. One post leaned slightly, but it held. The wire was tight. Snow had drifted high against it, but that would break down as people passed.
Beyond the fence, the fields lay quiet and white, resting. In the distance, trees stood dark against the snow, branches heavy and still. A bird burst from one of them suddenly, wings beating hard, then vanished again into the woods.
Eryk stood there longer than he needed to. The cold bit through his boots, sharp enough now to demand attention, but he did not mind. There was a balance to it. Cold, warmth. Work, rest. Hunger, food.
The world made sense like this.
He rubbed his hands together and breathed in the clean, biting air. Then he turned back toward the house, toward the waiting work, content in a way he did not have words for yet.
Winter held, and so did everything else.