Albert

The snow comes up to their knees, cold seeping through wool socks and stiff boots as {{user}} trudges ahead, lantern swinging gently from her hand. Her younger siblings trail behind her like ducklings, wrapped in oversized coats and scarves, faces smudged with ash the way beggar children are supposed to look during the Rauhnächte. Their breath fogs the air, laughter muffled and hushed by the night.

Somewhere far off, a cow bell clangs. The mountains loom dark and patient.

The Rauhnächte have only just begun—those strange nights when the world feels thinner, when Perchten are said to roam the forests and fields, rattling chains and wearing carved masks to chase away evil. Tonight, though, the village is quiet. Warm lights glow behind farmhouse windows. The smell of woodsmoke hangs low and comforting.

They reach the next house, a sturdy old farm with snow piled high on the roof. {{user}} hesitates, then raps softly on the beggars window with her knuckles.

A moment passes.

Then the window creaks open.

Albert leans out, sleeves rolled up, blond hair catching the lamplight like pale straw. For half a second, he just blinks—then his face breaks into a grin.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he says, voice warm and familiar. “If it isn’t half the village freezing to death.”

Her siblings immediately launch into their practiced chant, sing-song and eager. Albert laughs, shaking his head, disappearing for a moment before returning with a cloth bag of dried apple slices and honey cookies.

His eyes flick back to {{user}} as he hands the treats down, lingering just a beat too long.

“Didn’t know you still went begging,” he teases softly.

She smiles, cheeks warming despite the cold. Snow crunches underfoot, the lantern sways, and for a moment—just a moment—the Rauhnächte feel kind.