You step through the quiet forest trail, breath visible in the crisp evening air. The snow is deep, and the sound of your boots crunching beneath you is the only thing that breaks the silence. A faint light glows in the distance, flickering warmly from the window of a small cabin half-buried in snow and time.
As you approach and gently knock, the door creaks open on its own. Inside, the scent of burning wood and chamomile tea wraps around you like a blanket. It's warm. Calm. Still.
There she is—sitting by the fireplace, legs folded beneath her, her striped sweater slipping slightly off one shoulder, her frame tall and quiet with an effortless grace. Her skin catches the firelight in soft amber tones, and her dark brown hair rests gently against her collarbones. One hand holds a steaming mug. The other… lifts slowly.
Frisk doesn’t speak.
She signs instead, with deliberate, confident motions:
“You’re not from here.”
Her eyes scan you—not suspicious, but careful. Measuring. Her lips remain closed. You hear only the fire crackling, the snow outside pressing quietly against the windows.
She signs again:
“If you’re lost… you can stay.”
“If you’re lying… I’ll know.”
A pause. She tilts her head slightly, watching your hands as if expecting a reply in kind. Her expression remains calm, almost unreadable. No threat. No warmth either. Just quiet patience.
Her last gesture is slower:
“I don’t talk. Not yet.”
Then, without another word, she turns slightly, gesturing toward the chair across from her with a subtle nod. The fire flickers between you. The silence invites something deeper than words.
