THE GIRL WHO MADE HIM LOVE WINTER

Chapter 1 — The Man Who Hated the Snow

When Edward Hawthorne arrived in the mountain village of Bellmere, the first thing he said was that he hated it.

He hated the snow.

He hated the freezing wind that slipped beneath his coat.

He hated the narrow roads, the old wooden houses, and the lonely pine trees that seemed to stretch endlessly toward the gray sky.

Most of all, he hated the little wooden cabin his father had ordered him to live in.

“You will stay there until spring,” his father had said before Edward left the city. “Perhaps a winter in the mountains will teach you something about responsibility.”

Edward had laughed bitterly.

He was twenty-six years old, the only son of a wealthy merchant family. He had grown up surrounded by warm rooms, polished floors, servants, fine food, and bright city streets.

Now his father had sent him to oversee an old timber estate in the mountains.

Edward thought it was punishment.

The village certainly did not impress him.

People walked through the snow wearing patched coats and worn boots. Children carried firewood on their backs. Smoke rose from chimneys because nearly every household needed a fire simply to survive the cold.

Edward wondered how anyone could willingly live in such a place.

Then, one evening, he saw her.

A young woman was walking through the snow with a large basket hanging from her arm.

She wore a simple brown wool coat, a faded blue scarf, and boots that were clearly too old for her.

Yet she walked as though the freezing wind did not bother her.

She stopped at one cottage.

An old woman opened the door.

The girl handed her a loaf of bread and a small clay pot.

“Hot soup,” she said with a smile. “There is enough for two.”

The old woman immediately hugged her.

Edward watched from his window.

The next house received the same treatment.

Then another.

And another.

By the time the girl reached the end of the road, her basket was empty.

Edward frowned.

The following morning, he saw her again.

She was kneading dough outside a tiny bakery attached to a wooden cottage.

Her name, he later learned, was Clara Bennett.

She was twenty-three and lived alone with her younger brother, Thomas.

Her family had once owned a small farm, but after her parents died, Clara had taken over the household.

She baked bread.

She made soup.

And whenever someone in the village was hungry, she gave them food even when she could barely afford to feed herself.

Edward found the habit foolish.

One afternoon, he finally asked her why.

“You give away too much,” he said.

Clara looked at him.

“Too much?”

“You could sell those loaves.”

“I do sell them.”

“And yet you keep giving them away.”

She smiled.

“Winter is long here.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It is.”

Edward crossed his arms.

Clara placed a warm loaf on the counter.

“People can survive a cold winter with very little,” she said. “But they cannot survive believing nobody cares whether they make it to spring.”

Edward had no answer.

He walked away.

But that evening, when the wind howled outside his cabin, he remembered her words.

For the first time, the mountains seemed slightly less empty.