The first snow came earlier than anyone expected. The river froze in thin glass layers and wagons moved slower every day. Clara watched drivers wrap their horses in old blankets and still shiver from the cold. Roads cracked, bridges sagged, and trade began to choke.

Inside the main shop, shelves stood half full. Customers bought less, saving their coins for food and firewood. Some branches reported losses for the first time. The letters came one after another. Supplies delayed. Customers gone. Fund running low. Clara read them all and felt the weight settle on her chest.

She gathered the council that night. Mary, Thomas, and the four other members sat around the table. The wind whistled through the cracks in the walls. Clara laid out the ledgers, numbers written in dark ink that looked like bruises. “We cannot keep the same prices,” one man said. “We’ll drown in debt.” Another woman argued, “If we raise prices, people will starve.”

Clara listened without speaking. Then she stood. “We will not raise prices,” she said softly. “We’ll cut our own pay and live lean until spring.” Silence filled the room. Thomas nodded first. “Then I’ll start with mine.” The others followed.

Over the next weeks, Clara visited each branch to calm fears. She helped unload wagons herself, shared meals with workers, and wrote notes of thanks for every small act of effort. She kept the lamps burning even when oil ran short, saying light gives hope even if it costs a coin.

But winter grew harsher. Wagons broke in the ice. One driver never returned. Clara rode out with Thomas to find the missing man. They discovered his cart overturned near the frozen river, goods scattered and half buried in snow. He was alive but weak. They built a fire and waited through the night until help arrived.

Back in town, Clara paid for the man’s rest and told his family the market would cover the loss. The council argued it was not wise. She answered, “Mercy is never wasted coin.”

By late winter, the chain had shrunk. Two branches closed temporarily, one by choice, one by need. Yet the name Benton’s Market still carried warmth. People trusted it because Clara never broke her word.

One evening Mary brought her tea and said, “You’re working too hard again.” Clara smiled faintly. “So are you.” They both laughed, tired but calm.

When the first thaw came, water ran down the hills like silver threads. Clara stood by the door watching the road turn from white to brown. The worst had passed.

That night she wrote in her book. Winter is a teacher with cold hands. It shows who endures and who fades.

She closed the cover, blew out the candle, and slept to the sound of melting snow.