Showy pressed her palm to the cafe wall and felt the cold bite through her white sweater. Tomorrow she planned to open the coziest cafe in Fangfrost, a place where every frozen traveler could thaw. But the old stove in the corner was dead. Its iron belly held nothing but ash. Outside, the storm hammered the windows, and inside, her breath came out in small clouds. She knelt and struck a match against the stove's grate. The flame caught a scrap of wood, flared, then died. She tried again. The wood was damp all the way through. Every log in her pile was soaked from the leak in the roof. Showy sat back on her heels and pulled her knees close. Without heat, no one would stay. They would stomp their boots, glance around, and leave for somewhere warm. The door swung open. Snow blew in, and with it came Luna, her black hair dusted white, her earmuffs pushed down over her ears. She dragged a canvas sack behind her, and a small black-and-brown kitten poked its head from her sweater collar. "You never answer your door," Luna said. She dropped the sack with a heavy thud. "So I let myself freeze on your step for ten minutes." Showy stood fast. "My stove won't light. The wood's wet. I open tomorrow and I can't warm a single chair." Luna crouched by the dead stove. She ran a finger along a crack in the iron and frowned. "This thing's older than both of us. Even dry wood would leak smoke out these seams." She looked up. "You need a real firebox, not this ruin." "I don't have one," Showy said. "I don't have money for one." Luna kicked the sack toward her. "My father closed his workshop last month. This was his forge stove. Cast iron, sealed tight, burns hot on almost nothing." She unrolled the canvas. Inside sat a squat black stove, scratched but solid, its door hinged and true. They hauled it into the corner together. Showy's arms shook under the weight. Luna fed dry kindling from her own pack through the little door. Showy struck the match. This time the flame took hold and climbed. Heat rolled out in a slow, steady wave. The kitten leapt down and curled before the glow. Showy pressed both hands near the door and laughed. The cold in the room began to break. Chairs, tables, the frost on the glass—all of it softened in the growing warmth. Then she saw the pipe. The old stove had vented through a rusted flue in the wall. The new firebox burned hotter, and smoke already pooled against the ceiling, thick and gray. Luna waved a hand through it and coughed. "It works," Luna said. "But this smoke has nowhere to go." Showy watched the gray cloud spread. She had her heat at last. Now she needed to send the smoke out before it choked her first customer.

Showy woke to silence. No wind. No hammering snow. She pushed open the cafe door and stopped. A wall of white blocked the path to her steps. The blizzard had buried everything overnight. No traveler could reach her door today, opening day. Behind her, a draft slipped through the window seams. It found the little forge stove and swallowed its flame. The fire winked out. Cold poured back into the room, and Showy hugged her white sweater tight. She grabbed a shovel and dug. Snow filled the space as fast as she cleared it. Her fingers went numb inside her mittens. After ten minutes she had cleared six feet and could not feel her toes. The path ran on for a hundred more. She dropped the shovel and sat down hard in the snow, breath shaking. A point of blue light bobbed over the drift. Then a second, pink and white. Two fairies. Showy had met them once, back when she first bought the cafe. The boy, Brantley, had wiped his muddy shoes on her doorstep and grinned like it was a gift. The girl beside him watered the frost off her window ledge each morning without asking. "You're freezing," Brantley said. He landed on the shovel handle. His blue tunic caught the pale light, silver stars glinting. "That's no good for a cafe." "Nobody's coming," Showy said. "The snow won. My fire's out." Roseabella hovered close, flower headband bright against the gray sky. She frowned at the buried path, then at Showy's blue lips. "We can't melt all this. But we don't have to." She turned to Brantley. "The light. Do the light." Brantley lifted the tiny glowing flower in his hand. Roseabella spread her arms. Sparks lifted off her wings and drifted down the drift like fireflies. Where they touched snow, the surface hardened smooth and firm. The two fairies flew backward, trailing light, and a narrow packed path formed behind them, curving away toward the distant road. "It won't melt," Roseabella called. "But boots won't sink now. They'll walk straight to your door." Showy scrambled up. She followed the glowing trail to the road's edge. Far off, a shape rumbled through the white. A pink and blue truck, chains on its tires, rolled to a stop where the packed path began. The driver leaned out, an old man with red cheeks. "Saw the lights," he said. "Half the ridge did. Is the cafe open?" Showy ran back inside. She stuffed dry kindling through the forge door and struck a match. The flame caught and climbed. This time she wedged a folded cloth into the window seam. No draft reached the fire. Heat rolled out steady and warm. Boots stamped on the packed path outside. The old man came first, then others behind him. Showy pulled the door wide. Then smoke curled off the stovepipe, thick and gray, and pooled against the ceiling as the first traveler stepped in.

The travelers left at dusk, mugs empty, cheeks warm. Showy waved from the door until the last boots faded down the packed path. Then she fed the stove its final split log. It hissed. Steam curled off the wood instead of flame. She grabbed the next piece from the pile. Soaked through. The blizzard had buried her woodshed, and the thaw had ruined every log. Within minutes the fire shrank to coals. Cold crept back across the floor. Showy shoved her hands under her arms. Her fingers had gone white and stiff. She could not feel two of them. If the fire died tonight, she would too. No traveler would find a frozen shopkeeper welcoming. She needed dry wood now, and she had none. A knock rattled the door. Showy opened it. Luna stood on the step, black hair dusted with snow, her white sweater bright in the dark. She had given Showy the forge stove itself, hauled it here the day before opening and bolted it in with her own hands. Now she carried a sled stacked with split logs, and a smaller girl and two boys trailed behind her, bundled and pink-cheeked, dragging more. "You look half-frozen," Luna said. She caught Showy's white fingers and pressed them between her palms. "How long has your fire been dying?" "An hour. My wood's all wet." Showy's voice shook. "I didn't know who else to wait for." "You didn't wait. I saw your chimney stop smoking from the ridge." Luna nodded at the children. "They were building a snowman by my cottage. I told them there was a cafe that needed rescuing. Turns out kids like a rescue." The children hauled the logs inside and stacked them by the stove. Dry logs, seasoned, split thin. Luna knelt at the stove door and raked the dying coals forward. She wedged a slim log against them and blew. The coals brightened. A flame licked up the bark and caught. Heat spread. Showy sank onto a chair and held her aching hands toward it. Feeling returned to her fingers in slow, stinging waves. She flexed them. They still worked. "You can't run a cafe on wet wood and luck," Luna said. She stood and brushed ash from her knees. "This sled won't last two days. You need a real store of dry wood, kept somewhere the snow can't reach." Showy looked at the fire, steady now, then at her ruined woodpile by the wall. Luna was right. The path was fixed. The stove was hers. But every warm night depended on wood she could not keep dry. She had saved tonight. She could not save every night the same way. "Then that's next," Showy said. "A dry place to keep it. Before the next storm buries me."

The stove held, but the tables stayed empty. Showy stood in the warm room and looked at her four hard wooden chairs. Anyone who sat in them would rest a minute, then leave. No one lingered. No one thawed. The vase of daisy, rose, and lily sat on the counter, bright and useless. Warmth alone did not make a cafe. She needed a place where a frozen traveler wanted to stay. She counted her coins on the counter. Not enough for chairs, let alone soft ones. She fed the fire and pulled her earmuffs on. She would ask Luna. Luna had gifted her the stove and watched over the cafe since the first storm. If anyone knew where to find soft seats, it was her. Showy walked the packed snow path to the huge pink house with white trim. Glowing windows spilled gold on the drifts. Luna opened the door before she knocked, wiping her hands on an apron. "You've got soot on your nose again," she said, and grinned. "My chairs are wood," Showy said. "No one stays. I fixed the smoke and the wood and the flue, and still nobody rests." Luna's grin faded into thought. She looked past Showy at the cold. Then she waved her inside. "Come see the attic. My family stored things when we downsized." They climbed narrow stairs. Under a dust sheet sat an oversized ivory couch, rounded arms, deep cushions, pastel pillows stitched with tiny stars and clouds. Showy pressed her hand into it. Her whole palm sank. She thought of a traveler falling into that after a hard road. "It's too big for us now," Luna said. "Take it. Anyone who sits in that won't want to get up." Getting it down the stairs took an hour and every ounce of both their backs. They dragged it through the snow on a sled, tipped it through the cafe door, and shoved it beside the stove. Showy dropped a pillow at each end. She stepped back and looked. The room changed. It was no longer a place to pass through. It was a place to sink into. Her orange cat wandered from its pink bed, climbed the cushion, and curled up in the corner. Luna laughed. "There. First customer." Showy set the flower vase on the low table beside the couch. She banked the fire higher. Warmth reached the soft seat now, and the seat reached back to anyone who came. She had made a place to stay. But as Luna left, Showy looked at the single couch and the empty berry basket on the counter. A traveler could rest now. What would she feed them? She had warmth and a soft seat and nothing to serve. The next problem was already on the counter, waiting.