The scratching of the pen slowly faded into silence.
Asha remained seated at the small wooden table while the storm outside continued raging without end.
The room trembled softly every few moments beneath the force of the wind.
Snow struck the walls.
The roof groaned quietly.
And somewhere outside in the frozen darkness, metal chains hanging near the house clinked weakly against one another beneath the blizzard.
Inside— only the weak oil lamp continued burning.
Its dim light stretched long shadows across the cramped room while Asha stared down at the paper in front of her.
Her breathing had slowed again.
But the heaviness inside her chest remained.
The final sentence still rested near the bottom of the page.
“If I stay here… someone will die.” Asha read it again silently.
Then looked away immediately.
Her eyes shifted toward the photographs spread carefully across the table.
The stars stared back at her from frozen skies trapped inside paper.
Calm.
Untouchable.
Far away from villages, fear, suspicion, and cold human whispers.
For a brief moment, Asha imagined disappearing somewhere beneath those skies.
Far from people.
Far from questions.
Far from the growing fear in everyone’s eyes whenever they looked at her.
But even that thought felt impossible now.
Slowly, she lowered her gaze back toward the paper.
There was still one final thing left to write.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the pen.
The wooden chair creaked quietly as she leaned closer to the table once more.
Then carefully— slowly— she wrote: “I wrote this message so that if I ever return home again…” Her handwriting became smaller.
More fragile.
“…I’ll remember who I was.” The moment the sentence ended, the room fell silent again.
Only the storm remained.
Asha stared at the words for a long time without moving.
As though she feared that even writing them had made something real.
Forget herself.
The possibility frightened her more than death.
More than the village.
More than the Eyes of Ice.
Because if she lost herself— then what would remain?
The oil lamp flickered again.
Asha blinked slowly before finally setting the pen down beside the paper.
A soft wooden sound echoed through the room.
Done.
The message was finished.
For several seconds, she simply sat there staring downward with exhausted eyes.
Then she carefully picked up the sheet with both hands.
The paper trembled slightly from the movement.
Or maybe from her.
She folded it slowly and neatly.
Once.
Then again.
Careful not to wrinkle it.
Careful not to damage the only thing she had left behind for herself.
Asha stood quietly from the chair.
The floorboards creaked softly beneath her boots.
She crossed the small room slowly while the storm continued screaming outside the walls.
Near the bed sat a small wooden box.
Old.
Scratched.
The corners slightly worn with age.
Asha knelt beside it and lifted the lid gently.
Inside were only a few belongings.
Old papers.
A damaged necklace.
A broken mechanical part she had never thrown away for some reason.
And empty space.
She placed the folded letter carefully inside.
Then paused.
Her hand lingered above the box for several long seconds.
Almost like she wanted to say something to the person who might someday open it.
To herself.
But no words came.
Only silence.
Finally, she lowered the lid slowly until the box closed with a quiet wooden click.
Asha remained kneeling there afterward.
Motionless.
The room suddenly felt strangely distant around her.
Like she had already begun leaving before even opening the door.
The wind outside howled violently again.
Asha slowly closed her eyes.
Then whispered softly— almost too quietly to hear— “…Please don’t forget.” Whether she was speaking to herself… or to the girl she used to be— even she no longer knew.