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Snow lay lightly on the ridge, thin enough that the rocks still showed through.

Rayan knelt, gathered a handful, and let it melt in his mouth.

Beside him, Amira hugged her knees, counting the seeds again.

Their mother sat close to both of them, wrapping her scarf tighter around all three when the wind grew colder.

“Any more snow there?” the mother asked softly.

“Some,” Rayan said. He wiped his hands on his sleeves and looked toward the far edge of the ridge. He did not stare long. The mist there moved strangely, as if it breathed on its own.

Amira leaned her head on the mother’s arm. “If we had water,” she whispered, “the seeds would grow.”

“I know,” the mother said. She didn’t say anything else. She just rested her hand on Amira’s hair, gentle and tired.

The wind picked up again, sharp enough to sting their faces.

Rayan moved closer to them. “We’ll keep looking tomorrow,” he said.

He said it slowly, as if he needed to convince himself first.

The mother nodded. “Tomorrow.”

They stayed like that for a while, listening to the sound of the wind brushing over the ridge. Snow cracked softly beneath their feet when they stood, and the three of them walked back toward the safer path, staying away from the shifting mist at the edge.

In another place we see a boy He stepped silently between roots and fallen branches, his black eyes watching everything around him.

He carried a small woven bag, hardly filled. Some roots. A few berries. Enough for now.

When he heard a sound, he immediately crouched low.

Just a bird. Its wings beat the air and disappeared into the trees.

Hassan waited a long time anyway.

He walked again, slow and light, avoiding open spaces. When he saw people in the distance—gathering wood, washing clothes by the river—he turned away before they even noticed him.

They were not bad people. Some would wave at him.

Some had left food out before, hoping he would take it.

But he never did.

He kept to himself. It was safer like that.

As the sky darkened, Hassan reached a spot he used often. A hollow between two old roots.

He brushed leaves aside, made space, and sat down, pulling his thin cloth tighter around him.

“Just tonight,” he whispered.

“Tomorrow I’ll try again.”

He placed the small pile of food beside him and leaned back against the tree trunk.

The forest settled into its night sounds—soft, distant, and uncertain.

Hassan stayed awake longer than he needed to, listening for machines, even though none had passed in days.

Only when he felt sure did he close his eyes.

The morning light slipped into the small cave, a thin, pale line across the stone floor.

Rayan opened his eyes slowly. His back ached a little — the cave wasn’t the softest place to sleep — but it was home. It kept the wind out, and that was enough.

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