That same night, with a small bag and a heavy heart, she left the only place she had ever known.
He was 14 years old.
And she was alone.
The forest greeted her with an early chill.
But he didn’t stop.
I knew I didn’t have much time.
If his instinct was correct, the snow would arrive sooner than expected.
I needed a refuge.
Something certain.
Something… hidden.
He walked for hours, until he reached an area he vaguely recognized. There stood an old, abandoned well, partially overgrown with weeds.
I remembered seeing it as a child.
He approached.
He looked inside.
It wasn’t as deep as normal wells. Over time, it had partially filled with earth and debris.
But it had something important.
Protection.
The wind barely came in.
The stone structure maintained a certain stability.
And most importantly… it was hidden.
Alma made a decision.
“Here,” she whispered. “This is where I’m going to live.”
The first few days were brutal.
Without proper tools, he began to dig with his hands, using stones, pieces of wood, whatever he could find.
I wanted to expand the space.
Create a small cave inside the well.
His fingers were bleeding.
Her nails were breaking.
But he didn’t stop.
He knew his life depended on it.
During the day, he gathered what he could: roots, nuts, branches. During the night, he worked in his shelter.
Little by little, the well was transformed.
It wasn’t comfortable.
But it was functional.
A small underground space, protected from the wind, where he could take shelter.
And then… the snow came.
Without warning.
A storm covered the forest in a matter of hours.
The world turned white.
Silent.
Relentless.
In the town, chaos began.
The reservations were not ready.
The roads were blocked.
The cold intensified more than anyone had predicted.
But it was too late.
Meanwhile, underground, Alma resisted.
His cave in the well became his world.
She had learned to conserve heat using layers of dry leaves. She carefully lit small fires, using the minimum amount of oxygen available.
He rationed his food.
She listened to the wind passing overhead, like a constant reminder of what awaited her outside.
There were days when I wanted to give up.
Days when the cold seeped in, when hunger gnawed, when loneliness hurt more than any wound.
But something inside her kept her strong.
“I’m not going to die here,” he kept repeating to himself.
Time lost its meaning.
Days.
Weeks.
Perhaps months.
