A cold wind whistled over the river, bending the dry reeds low to the water.
A woman knelt at the edge, her hands plunged into the icy current. Her fingers were red, her lips blue, but she kept scrubbing the tiny baby clothes — little shirts, socks, swaddles. Beside her on the bank lay an old tin basin and a sack with the last pieces of soap.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon, yet she didn’t hurry to leave.
There was nowhere to go. The house where they’d lived had burned down two weeks ago. Her husband had died at a construction site, leaving her with a newborn and nothing else. Now she slept at neighbors’ homes, and during the day came to the river — to wash, to stay warm through movement, to *do something* — anything — so she wouldn’t lose her mind.
When she heard footsteps behind her, she thought someone from the village had come to ask for help.
But instead, she saw a man in a long coat. He stood watching her, and the small clothes in her hands. His gaze held no pity — only quiet understanding.
“The water’s freezing,” he said gently. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
She squeezed the fabric tighter, eyes downcast.
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “I’m used to it.”
Without another word, the man took off his coat and placed it over her shoulders.
The fabric was warm, smelling faintly of wood and rain.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “I’ll build a house by this shore. For you.”
She looked up at him.
“For me? Why?”
He smiled — barely.
“Because you stand here like someone guarding more than just clothes. And people like that shouldn’t have to live in the cold.”
He said it simply, without grandness. Then he stepped aside, took a folded paper and a pencil from his bag, and began sketching on his knee, right there on the damp page. The frozen earth crunched beneath his boots.
A week later, wooden stakes appeared along the riverbank — then the first planks. The man came back every day, despite the wind and the cold.
At first, the woman tried to help, then she simply watched, her child in her arms.
By spring, when the grass turned green along the river, the house stood complete — small, but warm, its windows facing the water.
And every time the wind carried the scent of the river through the air, she remembered that day —
the day her life began to breathe again.
