Thomas Hale didn’t step back.

He stayed by the fire, hands open where she could see them, like he didn’t want to frighten her into slipping away again.

“You’re inside,” he said quietly. “You’re safe now.”

The girl’s lips trembled. Her eyes darted around the cabin—walls, shadows, fire—like she didn’t trust any of it to stay real.

“Don’t send me back,” she whispered.

Thomas’s expression tightened.

“I won’t.”

Outside, the storm threw itself against the house again, as if offended by the answer.

The girl tried to sit up, but her body shook too hard. Thomas moved immediately, sliding a folded wool blanket closer without touching her.

“You’ve been out there a long time,” he said.

Her voice came broken. “I stopped walking… when it got too dark.”

That made him go still.

He glanced toward the door, as if expecting someone to burst through it at any moment.

No one came.

Only wind.

Only snow.

Thomas reached for a tin cup near the hearth, poured what little warm water he had left, and placed it near her instead of forcing it on her.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The girl hesitated for a long moment.

Then: “Evelyn.”

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The fire cracked softly.

Thomas nodded once, like he was committing it to memory.

“Alright, Evelyn,” he said. “You’re not outside anymore. You don’t have to earn staying here.”

Her eyes lifted slightly at that—like she didn’t understand the idea of being allowed to stay somewhere without permission.

A long silence followed.

Then, faintly, from beneath the blanket:

“…Is someone coming for me?”

Thomas looked at her for a long moment.

Outside, the wind answered first—loud, persistent, unkind.

But Thomas’s voice cut through it anyway.

“Not while I’m here.”