Morning light slipped through the shutters and lay across the scrubbed table where the woodcutter’s three children sat eating porridge with wooden spoons.
The youngest, Lira, swung her feet and asked why the porridge always tasted best when the wind rattled the shutters and the chimney sang a soft song.
Her brother Bram shrugged and reached for more honey, while the eldest, Mira, studied the bundles of sticks piled near the hearth like sleeping animals.
Their father came in with snow on his boots, set down his axe, and told them the winter was coming early and the woodpile must be finished before dusk.
The children hurried into coats and mittens, breath steaming, and followed their father along a narrow path that glittered with frost.
They reached the clearing where last week’s storm had scattered branches like broken arrows across the moss, and the father pointed out the straightest pieces.
Bram tugged at a long limb, but it would not budge; Mira knelt and found the limb was still rooted, held by a tangle of smaller roots.
Lira tried to help, yet her small hands only scattered pine needles; she felt the cold seep through her mittens and wished for home.
Their father showed them how to loosen the roots with careful cuts, then lift together, and the limb came free with a soft sigh of earth.
They carried the sticks in small loads, stopping often to rest, and the forest seemed to watch them with quiet approval.
At noon they sat on a fallen log and ate bread and cheese; Bram complained that his arms ached, and Mira said the pile at home still looked small.
Lira listened to the wind moving through the high branches and thought she heard a faint cracking sound, like sticks testing their strength.
When they returned to work, the father noticed three crooked sticks lying apart from the rest and asked who would carry them.
Bram claimed the longest one, but it bent under his grip and slipped, hitting the frozen ground with a sharp report that startled a nearby grouse.
Mira gathered the shorter pieces, yet one jabbed her thumb; she sucked the spot and glared at the sticks as if they had chosen to hurt her.
Lira tried to bundle the three together, but they slid in different directions until she wrapped them with a strip of cloth torn from her scarf.
The bundle stayed together, and she carried it proudly, though the cloth rubbed her wrist and left a red mark shaped like a thin smile.
By late afternoon the clearing was nearly bare, and shadows stretched long across the snow; the father said they must finish before the light failed.
Bram dropped his last armload and sat down, declaring the work too hard for one day, and Mira agreed, rubbing her sore shoulders.
Lira looked at the remaining sticks and remembered how the bundled ones had felt lighter; she asked if they might try tying the last few together.
Their father handed her a length of twine from his pocket, and together they bound the sticks into three neat bundles that rested neatly on their arms.
The walk home was quieter; the only sounds were the crunch of boots and the soft tap of sticks against coat buttons.
Inside the cottage, the fire had burned low, and the mother stirred a pot of stew while the children stacked their bundles beside the hearth.
Bram tried to break a single stick from the top bundle, but it would not snap; Mira tried the next, and it bent without breaking.
Lira placed her small hand on the largest bundle and pressed; the sticks held fast, and the fire crackled as if pleased with their work.
Their father placed one bundle across his knee and pressed with both hands; the sticks groaned but stayed whole, and the children watched with wide eyes.
He set the bundle down, brushed pine needles from his sleeves, and told them supper was ready; the warmth of the stew filled the room like a promise.
That night, when the wind rose again, the three bundles rested together by the hearth, and the cottage seemed to breathe more easily beneath the snow.