The fire took the barn first. Then the orchard. By noon, the sky was a bruised purple, choking the light. You stood in the yard, watching the smoke curl into the empty blue. The air tasted of ash and copper. You were not crying. You were too busy breathing.

It was the winter of your thirtieth year. The village of Oakhaven lay under a blanket of snow that had not melted since the solstice. The cold was a physical weight, pressing against your ribs. You wore a wool coat that had seen better decades. The lining was thin. The buttons were plastic. You counted them as you walked. One, two, three. Broken. Four, five. Loose. Six.

Thomas stood by the stove inside. He did not look up. He was sharpening a knife. The sound was rhythmic. Shhhk. Shhhk. Shhhk. It cut through the silence of the room.

"Did you see the smoke?" he asked. His voice was flat. A stone in a stream.

"I saw it."

"Whose house is it?"

"I do not know."

He stopped sharpening. He looked at you. His eyes were gray. Like the sky before a storm. He held the blade up to the light. He wiped it with his thumb. He tasted the metal.

"John Miller," he said. "It is John Miller’s place."

You nodded. John Miller lived on the ridge. He was old. His wife had died last spring. The house was drafty. The walls were thin.

"We should go," you said. "He needs help."

"We have no food to give," Thomas said. "We have no wood to spare."

"He is alone."

"Everyone is alone in the end."

You turned away from him. You looked out the window. The snow was falling harder. The world was white. The white was aggressive. It erased the lines between things. It made the fences invisible. It made the trees ghostly. It made the ground disappear.

"We are not alone," you said. "We are here. I am here. You are here."

Thomas laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves crunching underfoot.

"You are here," he said. "That is all. You are here, and you are hungry."

He was right. Your stomach was a knot. You had not eaten since dawn. The porridge had been water. The bread was stale. You chewed it until it was paste. You swallowed it down with tea that had no sugar.

The hunger was a beast. It lived in your belly. It had teeth. It gnawed at your insides. It made you dizzy. It made you irritable. It made you angry. You were angry at the cold. You were angry at the snow. You were angry at Thomas. You were angry at yourself.

Why did you stay?

You had left London ten years ago. You had left the city. You had left the noise. You had left the crowds. You had come here for the quiet. For the clean air. For the life. You had thought this would be the start. It was the end.

You looked at Thomas. He was eating an apple. He ate it slowly. He savoring it. The juice ran down his chin. He did not offer you a bite. He never did.

"Thomas," you said.

He looked up. His mouth was full. He swallowed. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"What?"

"We need to sell the cows."

He shook his head. "The market is closed. The roads are blocked."

"We can walk. We can take them to the next town."

"They will die in the snow."

"They will die in the barn if we do not feed them. We have no hay."

He looked at you. His face was hard. Like the stone of the hearth.

"You want to leave," he said. It was not a question.

"I want to live," you said.

"You want to be free."

"I want to eat."

He stood up. He put the knife in the drawer. He walked to the door. He opened it. The wind howled. The snow blew in. It covered his feet.

"Stay," he said.

"Go," you said.

He did not move. He stood in the doorway. He looked at you. His eyes were sad. They were tired. He was tired. You were tired. The world was tired.

"I cannot leave you," he said.

"You can leave me," you said. "You have been leaving me for years. You are just too proud to say it."

He flinched. It was a small movement. A twitch of the shoulder. But you saw it. You always saw it. You saw everything. That was the curse of the hungry. You saw the cracks in the wall. You saw the holes in the roof. You saw the lie in his eyes.

"I love you," he said.

The words hung in the air. They were cold. They were dead.

"I know," you said. "I love you too. But I am dying."

He closed the door. The wind died down. The room was silent. The fire crackled. The fire was small. It was weak. It could not fight the cold.

You went to the barn. The door was stuck. You pushed it. Your hands were numb. The wood was frozen. You kicked it. It gave way. The dark swallowed you.

The cows were lowing. They were thin. Their ribs showed. Their eyes were large. They looked at you. They were afraid. They were cold. You were afraid. You were cold.

You reached for the feed bucket. It was empty. You had given the last of the oats to Thomas. He had given it to the dog. The dog was sleeping by the fire. The dog was fat. The dog was warm.

You screamed. You screamed into the dark. The sound bounced off the walls. It echoed. It faded. No one came. No one heard.

You walked back to the house. Your legs were heavy. The snow was deep. It was up to your knees. You pulled yourself out. You fell. You got up. You fell again. You got up. You crawled.

You reached the porch. You pounded on the door. You pounded until your hands bled.

Thomas opened the door. He held a lantern. The light was yellow. It was warm. It was false.

"Go to bed," he said.

"Let me in."

"You are wet. You will make the floor cold."

"Let. Me. In."

He stepped back. You fell into the house. You were on the floor. You were shaking. The cold was in your bones. It was in your blood. It was in your heart.

Thomas knelt down. He took your hands. They were red. They were swollen. He rubbed them. He breathed on them.

"I am sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"For the cows. For the food. For the cold."

"For staying."

He looked at you. He did not say anything. He picked you up. He carried you to the bed. He pulled the quilt over you. It was thin. It was old. It smelled of dust and wool.

He sat on the edge of the bed. He held your hand. His hand was rough. His hand was warm.

"We will survive," he said.

"Will we?"

"Yes."

"You do not know that."

"I believe it."

"Belief is not enough."

"It is all we have."

You closed your eyes. The darkness was soft. The darkness was safe. The hunger was there. But it was quieter. The cold was there. But it was distant.

You thought of John Miller. You thought of his house. You thought of the fire. The fire was good. The fire was warm. The fire was free.

You wanted to be free.

You looked at Thomas. He was asleep. His face was peaceful. He was a stranger. He was a friend. He was a enemy. He was a love. He was a burden. He was a life.

You pulled your hand away. You slid out of the bed. Your feet touched the floor. The floor was cold. The floor was hard.

You put on your coat. You put on your boots. You put on your hat. You took the lantern from the table. You opened the door.

The snow was still falling. The world was white. The world was silent.

You walked out. You walked away from the house. You walked away from the fire. You walked away from Thomas. You walked away from the past.

You walked toward the ridge. You walked toward John Miller’s house. You walked toward the fire.

The wind hit your face. It was sharp. It was cold. It was alive.

You breathed. The air filled your lungs. It was sweet. It was clean. It was yours.

You walked. You walked. You walked.

The snow buried your footprints. The night swallowed the path. You were alone. You were free. You were alive.

You reached the ridge. The house was gone. There was only ash. There was only smoke. There was only silence.

You stood there. You watched the smoke rise. It mixed with the stars. It disappeared.

You turned around. You looked at the valley. The house was a dot. A black dot in the white snow. Thomas was inside. He was waiting. He was afraid.

You did not go back.

You walked into the woods. The trees were tall. The trees were dark. The trees were silent.

You walked until the sun came up. The snow melted on your face. The sun was warm. The sun was gold.

You found a stream. The water was clear. The water was cold. You drank. You washed your face. You looked at your reflection.

Your face was gaunt. Your eyes were dark. Your hair was wild. You looked like a ghost. You looked like a survivor.

You walked on. You walked toward the next town. You walked toward the market. You walked toward life.

You did not look back. You did not look back. You did not look back.

The past was gone. The future was open. The present was yours.

You were Margaret Holloway. You were thirty years old. You were alive.

You walked.