The fire pops and rustles as she makes herself comfortable on the sofa. She gently opens her journal and searches for the next clean page. Pausing for a moment she closes her eyes and absorbs the heat of the flames. Oranges and yellows dance in her mind. Images of the street below diffuse into her head then leave and are replaced with bare feelings of solitude and exclusion. Words come to her, incoherent yet explicit in the sensations they provoke. Behind the lively crackle of burning wood she can hear the muffled sounds of the night; the silence of snow falling softly to the ground; of a gentle wind darting through trees heavy with their frozen burden; of footsteps crunching, compacting the powder. A voice?
      Her meditation is interrupted as she hones in on an approaching noise, turning her head to the door and squinting as if willing the sound waves to her. Footsteps continue in the distance, heavy yet far apart. Then the voice again, but no distinguishable words. She whips her head round to the window and, seeing the huge flakes tumbling down outside, wonders why anybody would be out in this weather and so far from the town. The voice sounds again and Françoise gets up. She makes her way to the door, stepping cautiously like an adventurous child sneaking around at night. She presses her head to the wood, trying to form a picture of the events outside. The footsteps are getting louder and more regular. Now she hears a woman's voice call for help. Françoise's heart jumps, knowing that this woman must be heading this way. A moment of panic hits her as she realises that she may have to help. Despite the aching desire to fit in with the townsfolk, the thought of interacting with them was never so attractive. She thinks about playing dumb, wonders if she could pretend not to be here in the hope that she will be left alone. All the while the footsteps are getting clearer and more rapid, heightening Françoise's state of despair and blurring her ability to think straight. She shifts nervously in the vicinity of the door until there comes a sudden thud. Françoise's ears prick up and she snaps into a terrified stance, staring at the door.
      "Help me," calls the voice again. Françoise's ears relax as they notice something strange about the voice, something unexpected yet comforting and familiar. Cautiously she touches her ear to the wood again, listening intently.
      "Is there anybody at home?"