Lost amid gray rustles and noises like low chewing, owl hooting, unseen feet, she kept walking towards where she thought her grandmother's house should be. Snow started falling lightly, the night like soot dusted by ash and the noises grew more obtrusive as she hurried along with ever-quicker breaths, her knife outside her apron now when suddenly she stopped. She heard her father's voice. It came from behind several layers of black. Distant. Again. Distinct. Followed by a low growl. She stepped carefully towards the sounds. With each step the dark lessened, almost imperceptibly. Low howls her guide and slowly thinning blackness encouragement enough, she re-wrapped her scarf tighter around her face. Outlines of trees slowly became visible, her knife blade found light to reflect and each breath bit a little less into her lungs. She rounded a corner, certain again of her father's growl, and stopped again. She saw a roof. A cottage roof, eaves covered with snow and a dim, the dimmest light, a tiny candle, in the window.