The Woods During Winter: A Tale of Friendship, Courage, and Found Family

On most days, when the air was warm and the sun gentle, Dorin’s feet wouldn’t ache, nor would she hesitate to step outside. But winter was unforgiving in Sankori, and the snow piled up to her heels, its icy grip seeping through her thin slippers and stinging her skin like tiny needles. Still, she persisted, carrying her winter boots—not for herself, but for Catina, the fragile girl who lived next door.

Catina Vega was a wisp of a girl, so slender her legs looked as though they might snap beneath her. She was always burdened with chores by her cold, uncaring father, yet never given proper clothes to endure the cold. Dorin trudged through the snow, teeth chattering, until she reached her.

“Wear these,” Dorin said, kneeling before her friend to fit the boots on her frostbitten feet.

Catina flinched. “No, you need them more. You’re barely dressed yourself.”

“Are you really planning to gather firewood barefoot?” Dorin chuckled softly. “It’s fine. I have another pair.”

Though hesitant, Catina finally accepted, her cheeks glowing red against her pale, snow-white skin. Dorin even draped her own winter coat around Catina’s shoulders, the one she had kept for the harshest nights. She watched silently as Catina disappeared towards the edge of the forest, weighed down by the tasks ahead.

Dorin returned quietly to her family’s grand home, the Rosenheim estate. She slipped past the marble corridors, beneath towering family portraits that lined the ivory walls—portraits where her siblings shone with pride, their accolades on full display. Dorin was the youngest of three, a shadow in the brilliance of her elder siblings. Camille, the eldest, commanded respect with the same sternness as their father. Aureus, her brother, inherited their mother’s icy discipline.

The Rosenheim household was a beacon of perfection and prestige in Sankori. Wealth, intelligence, and legacy flowed in their blood—or so they believed. Dorin, with her dark hair, bronze skin, and sharp brown eyes, bore the family’s features but not its spark. She was the anomaly—the stranger.

At her study desk, Dorin tried to focus on her chemistry lessons, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere. She sketched constellations in the margins of her notebook, letting her imagination escape the suffocating walls of expectation. When footsteps neared, she hurriedly erased the drawings, hiding her secret world from prying eyes.

As the sky darkened, Dorin watched the Vega household from her window, waiting for Catina to return. But hours passed, and the girl was still absent. Anxiety gnawed at her. Soon, it was time to leave for the town shelter, where villagers gathered nightly in winter to hide from the monster rumored to haunt the woods.

“Dorin! Get ready,” Camille called.

“Catina’s not back yet. Please, can I go look for her?” Dorin begged.

“No. It’s too dangerous now,” Camille snapped. “We’ll see her at the shelter.”

But Dorin’s father’s voice silenced any further plea. “Enough. We’re leaving.”

On their way to the shelter, Dorin endured her family’s scrutiny. Her mother chastised her for not wearing her thicker coat—how could she admit she had given it away? They would only see her as careless again.

At the shelter, Dorin scanned the crowd, hoping to find Catina. But neither she nor her father had arrived. The chief sent patrols to investigate, and when Catina’s father finally appeared—alone—he blamed his daughter for disobedience, not for being missing.

Dorin’s frustration boiled over. She confronted Camille, blaming her for stopping her earlier. The argument ended with their father dragging them to the basement of the shelter, away from prying eyes.

Their father’s reprimands were harsh, his disappointment heavy. Camille was slapped—a rare punishment for the favored daughter. Then he turned to Dorin, his words cutting deeper than any blow. When she dared to whisper, “I wish I was the one who disappeared,” his rage erupted.

Later, in the crowded sleeping quarters, Dorin buried her tears in her pillow, her body trembling with sorrow and shame. She thought of Catina—alone, cold, possibly gone forever. The thought of returning to a life without her only friend was unbearable.

In the dead of night, driven by despair and determination, Dorin slipped out of the shelter through a window, armed only with a kitchen knife. She scoured the town, then approached the woods, where she stumbled upon strange, enormous footprints—far too large for any human. Fear rooted her to the spot. A great owl landed on her shoulder, and as she turned, a towering figure loomed before her—pale, furred, and monstrous.

Its wide, bloodshot eyes bore into her. She tried to scream, but her body collapsed, overwhelmed by dizziness and cold.

When she awoke, she was swaddled in warmth—not the biting snow she expected. She was in a cave lit by a crackling bonfire. A woman, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, stirred a pot nearby, while Catina sat close, her cheeks flushed with relief.

“Dorin!” Catina cried. “You’re awake!”

The creature—the monster—was gone. In its place stood Raelynn, or Rae, a witch cast out of Sankori long ago. She explained that she was the monster the townsfolk feared, but her purpose was not to harm—it was to save. She took children who were unloved, mistreated, and neglected, offering them a home.

The other children emerged—six of them, each with their own painful pasts. They had all chosen new names, shedding the pain of their old lives. Zeno, a boy Dorin’s age, even knew of her family by reputation.

“You’re not the only one who’s suffered behind wealth and status,” he told her.

Dorin was torn. She had come to find Catina, and now she was here among strangers who felt oddly like kin. She confessed her confusion to Rae, who gently reassured her.

“You don’t have to decide now. But know this—you’re not worthless, Dorin. Here, you can be loved because we choose to, not because we have to.”

Dorin broke down, the pain, isolation, and longing spilling out. Rae embraced her, offering comfort that Dorin hadn’t known she needed.

She spent the next day among the others, hearing their stories, tasting food made with care, listening to Zeno’s flute under the pale winter light. They laughed, cried, and shared dreams—of music, of names with meaning, of freedom.

Zeno had asked her if she knew the meaning of her name. “Dorin—it means stranger,” he’d said. For the first time, she wondered: did she want to remain a stranger to herself?

Perhaps here, in this odd, warm cave of outcasts, she could find a new name. A new self.

As the snow continued to fall outside, for the first time in her life, Dorin felt like she was home.

Moral of the Story

True family is not always defined by blood, but by the people who choose to love, understand, and accept you as you are. Sometimes, it takes courage to leave behind the life that hurts you to find the place where you truly belong.