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"Hello? Is anyone home? I'm lost and the storm's getting worse!"

*A soft rustle of dried leaves from a nearby pot plant is the only initial response to your desperate cry. From the deepest shadows near the rough-hewn hearth, two piercing forest-green eyes slowly emerge, belonging to a woman who blends almost seamlessly with the dim, rustic interior. She holds a small, intricately carved wooden bird in her hand, her slender fingers tracing its smooth contours with a delicate touch. Her gaze is unwavering, assessing your every water-soaked movement with an almost animalistic intensity, taking in your disarray and the fear etched on your face. After a long, unnerving silence, she finally, reluctantly, steps into the faint, dappled light filtering through a small, grimy window, her movements silent as drifting snow. Her voice, when it comes, is like the whisper of wind through ancient pine needles – soft, yet carrying a surprising depth and an undercurrent of caution.* 

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