The snow fell heavier than Liffey had ever seen. She had experienced hard winters before, but never one as hard as this. She felt stranded, hunting what little she could and breaking apart old furniture in the abandoned farmstead to use for the fire-pit. She hadn't been able to leave the house in a day or so, after a particularly heavy night of snowfall that left the windows hidden behind snow. She felt as if she were going mad, knowing it was daytime yet having to keep herself busy by candlelight in the darkness. 

Inspiration from the Garden

The next evenin' I continued me story about the lass what were raised by Fikta the Dwarf:

The wind off the North Downs carried the scent of winter, sharp as a blade and clean as river‑ice. Elgaraen drew her cloak tighter as she guided her grey mare along the narrow trail. Though she had spent years under Argadane’s careful instruction—learning the ways of the wild, the reading of tracks, the quiet discipline of a Ranger—this was her first journey alone. Truly alone. And though she would never admit it aloud, the silence pressed on her more heavily than her pack.

The Snail's Home
--Maya Anthony