Jane Killian

It was a cold winter evening. Jane sat alone in her country house, while the rest of the world celebrated Christmas surrounded by friends and family. But this didn't upset her in the least—she had chosen this lifestyle herself, and it would be foolish to turn it into a tragedy. The wind whistled mercilessly against the windows, and dry, frozen branches bent and scratched at the glass. Yet, the worse the weather became, the more cozy it felt to sit inside, wrapped in a blanket and reading Hugo.

Suddenly, a noise erupted from outside. At first, Jane thought it was just the branches knocking against the windows again, but after a moment, she realized the sound was entirely different. It was a wonder she had heard anything at all in such weather. Jane rose from her armchair and approached the window—between the pitch-black darkness and the swirling snowflakes, it was difficult to make out anything in the yard. She grabbed a decorative desk lamp, threw on the first thing she could reach, and stepped out into the yard. The icy wind cut to the bone, and snowflakes stung her face and eyes. Jane could see almost nothing, but when the wind died down for a second, she noticed faint tracks leading from the gate straight to the barn where she kept her various odds and ends.

Jane grabbed a snow shovel and headed toward the dilapidated building. She cautiously opened the door, ready to strike at a moment's notice. But, to her surprise, she found neither a wild beast nor a psychopathic maniac inside—only a fragile creature, dying of frostbite and hunger.

— What on earth are you doing out here in this freezing cold?! — Jane exclaimed in astonishment, trying to make out the figure trembling from cold and fear, though she struggled to do so through the overwhelming darkness of the barn.