Ten days earlier.
A half-burned sheet of paper slowly curled inward as flames consumed its blackened edges inside a small metal container.
The fire moved quietly.
Patiently.
One line after another disappeared beneath orange light until the final words collapsed into soft gray ash.
The room smelled faintly of smoke and old wood.
Outside, the blizzard screamed against the walls of the isolated house buried halfway beneath endless snow.
Inside— a girl sat alone beside a weak oil lamp.
The dim golden light flickered constantly across the tiny wooden room, barely strong enough to push back the surrounding darkness.
Asha lowered her hand slowly after dropping the burned paper into the fire.
For several seconds, she simply watched the ashes settle.
Silent.
Tired.
Then she reached for another sheet.
A clean one this time.
The paper looked precious in a world where almost nothing remained untouched by cold or decay.
She placed it carefully onto the table.
Then began writing.
Her hand moved steadily despite the exhaustion visible across her face.
Her short black hair barely reached her shoulders, slightly messy from sleepless nights.
Dark circles rested faintly beneath her eyes.
Not the look of someone physically weak— but someone mentally worn down by too many thoughts and not enough rest.
The scratching sound of the pen quietly filled the room.
Outside, the wind struck the wooden walls violently again.
The entire house creaked beneath the pressure of the storm.
Asha paused.
Her eyes lowered toward the blank space remaining at the top of the page.
Then slowly— she wrote: “If you’re reading this again… then it means you’ve returned here.” The sentence sat alone beneath the lamp light.
Asha stared at it for several long seconds.
As though even she was unsure who the message truly belonged to.
Then she quietly exhaled.
The warm breath briefly fogged the cold air near her lips before disappearing.
She continued writing.
“My name is Asha.” The pen stopped again.
A faint expression crossed her face.
Almost embarrassment.
Almost confusion.
Then she added softly beneath it: “I love the stars.” The storm outside howled louder.
The oil lamp flickered hard enough to make shadows move across the walls like living things.
Asha leaned back slightly in her chair.
Her tired eyes remained fixed on the page in front of her.
For a moment, she looked strangely distant.
Like someone trying to remember herself through words.
Finally, she whispered quietly to the empty room, “Why am I even writing this…?” No answer came.
Only the endless sound of snow and wind outside.
Asha lowered her eyes again.
Then slowly wrote: “I don’t know why I’m writing this…” Her pen moved more carefully now.
“Maybe because I’m afraid that someday… I’ll forget who I am.” The sentence made her hand pause again.
This time longer.
Her gaze slowly lifted toward the frozen window beside the table.
Thick layers of frost covered most of the glass, but faint lights could still be seen far beyond it.
The village.
Small.
Cold.
Silent beneath the storm.
A few weak lights glowed between distant houses buried in snow.
People still awake.
People still watching.
Asha’s expression darkened slightly.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the pen.
She knew the way they looked at her now.
The whispers that stopped whenever she passed nearby.
The silence that followed her footsteps.
The distance growing between her and everyone else.
At first it had only been rumors.
Then fear.
Now— something worse.
Suspicion.
Asha looked back down at the paper.
The scratching of the pen resumed slowly.
“I think they’re going to attack me soon.” Her handwriting became slightly uneven this time.
“They think I’m one of the Eyes of Ice.” The words felt heavier than the others.
Asha stared at them quietly.
The room suddenly felt colder.
Smaller.
The wind outside slammed violently against the walls again.
Then— she wrote another sentence beneath it.
One far less steady.
“But I don’t know the truth.” This time— her hand trembled for real.