The first snow stayed longer than anyone expected. The roofs turned white and the river froze along its edges. Each morning Maya brushed frost from the window before she lit the lamp. The cats slept near the fire. Ruth’s loaves cooled on the shelf by the wall. The air inside smelled of ash and sweet drink. Outside, boots crunched over packed snow.

Business slowed but never stopped. People traded candles, wool, and dried herbs. Maya wrote shorter lines in the ledger now because daylight ended early. Marc and Lena worked in thick coats. They counted coins with stiff fingers. Pike built a cover over his cart so he could sell even when it snowed. He called it his traveling roof and said he owed the idea to her.

One morning a wagon arrived from the north. Traveler John stepped down wearing a new fur collar. He brought news of frozen passes and lost caravans. He also carried a wooden crate. Inside were cups glazed in pale blue and a small brass scale. He said the cups were from the potter who had heard of her market and sent them as thanks. The scale was a gift from John himself. He said a store that traded with two towns should weigh things fair. Maya touched the smooth plates and nodded. The scale gleamed in the firelight like a new rule made of metal.

By noon the road disappeared under another round of snow. She closed the door early and brewed warm drink for everyone. They sat by the counter while wind pressed against the shutters. Marc asked what it was like in the world she came from. The question came so suddenly she almost spilled her cup.

She thought for a while before answering. She said it was loud and fast, full of lights that never slept. People moved quickly but talked little. Stores stayed open all night and food came in paper boxes. He looked amazed. Ruth said it sounded both grand and lonely. Maya said it was. She told them she had once wished for quiet, and now she had it.

When the wind eased, she stepped outside. The world glowed white under a thin moon. Footprints marked every path. She felt a strange peace standing there, wrapped in the cold. She realized that fear no longer ruled her nights. Harlan had vanished, the market stood firm, and people trusted her work. Yet part of her still wondered why she had been sent here. Was it chance or purpose? She looked at her hands and whispered that maybe both could be true.

The next day the road south opened again. Jonas arrived with a cart of grain for the northern stall. He said the headman wanted her to help plan a spring fair where all nearby villages could meet and trade. She smiled. The idea of a fair sounded like sunlight after long clouds. She promised to prepare.

That night she wrote a note in her small book. Winter holds its breath, but spring listens. She tucked it under the ledger and fell asleep by the fire.

Three nights later, a stranger knocked—this time not Harlan but a thin girl in torn gloves. She said her village had run out of candles and her brother was sick. Maya gave her a sack of wax and a jar of herbs without asking for pay. The girl wept and promised to return. When she left, Ruth whispered that such kindness would bring light far down the road.

Before bed Maya pinned another rule on the wall. Give without counting when the night is longest. She looked around the quiet room. The market’s shelves glowed in the lamplight, each jar a small sun. Outside, snow kept falling, but the air inside felt warm enough to last till spring.