“Stories?” the girl asks, hope in her dark eyes as she shuffles closer. You shake your head. You don’t remember any stories, nor songs before your time inside these walls. You have no childhood memories to tell that would suit little ears like hers. You feel a gentle pat on your leg and then Hede’s white blond hair peaks out from under the blanket.

“I have one. It’s about a winter gift,” Hede grins and sits up, arranging themselves to sit leaning against your legs, wrapping the edge of the blanket around their shoulders. The girl as well as few others, look at them, eager. Hede clears their throat, making a show of it before beginning.

“In the far up north, where the snowstorms like this are much more common and the dark lasts even longer, lived a little girl with her parents. They were woodcutters, poor but kind. One time just after a horrible storm the girl was sitting outside, fetching fire wood to keep the cabin warm while her parents were away. A small red robin landed on the branch near her. In a weak voice the bird begged her for a crumb of food. It had been a long and hard winter and all the berries in the forest were gone. Either eaten or buried by the snow.

The girl looked at the bird and while they were struggling she was kind and helpful and so told the bird to wait. She went inside with her fire wood and opened their pantry door. Carefully she took out her napkin and brushed all the loose crumbs of their bread on it. It was a meager amount so without thinking she opened the butter jar, scooping some of it to go with the bread.

‘thank you, sister,’ the bird chirped and sang a little song to her after eating everything she had gathered for it. The girl smiled and her cheeks were the same colour as the robin’s feathers. With a few more bits of song the bird flew away.

When her parents came home, she told them what had happened. Her father, a silent man, sighed and patted her head before going to bed without dinner. Her mother shook her head but advised that bread crumbs and butter were not good food for a bird, even a talking one.

The next day she waved goodbye to her parents. After doing all her chores, she gathered her knitting and settled by the window to wait. And wait. And wait. The sun started to set and they were still not home. Worried but not yet panicking, she made dinner. Then ate it. And watched as the world became dark. She waited all night and when the sun came up again, she was ready by first light. There was a little red robin waiting for her.

‘breakfast, sister?’ the bird chirped but this time she shook her head.

‘my parents are still in the woods. I have to find them.’ she tells the bird but tugs into her bag and pulls her meager bread and tears a bit off. She holds it out and the robin lands on her hand, starting to tear even smaller pieces out. An errant thought invades her mind, that she could just close her hand and she would have the little birds life in her hand. She lets the bird finish and then looks up as it takes flight.

‘I will go and find them for you, sister,” it chirps and flies away. She looks at the clear skies and then her home and stays behind. And waits. When the sky turns red and her tears have run out there’s sounds outside. She runs and crashes into her fathers strong, but cold arms. Her mother wraps herself around them both and she finds more tears behind her eyes.

That night the cabin is warm and she finds that she still fits between her in their bed. The next morning she waits with their last dried summer berries for her little robin. It comes and lands on her hands, singing as it eats. After she thanks and promises to always find something to give. The robin lands on her shoulder, nuzzles her neck and then chirps.

‘i don’t need no more of your help. For I am not a little bird but your brother, lost many winters ago. I have flown from far up high to see you one more time and thank you for looking after the helpless in their need.’ a small peck, like a brothers kiss on the cheek and then the robin flies up to the sky one last time.”

Hede ends the tale and there is silence. Then someone sniffles and the Matron is up from her chair and comforting the weeping little kid. You give Hede a little kick.

“It didn’t have to be so sad a story,” you mutter, hoping you two are not in trouble for upsetting the little ones. Hede hisses at the kick but turns their stupid face up and grins at you.

“I’m from the north, at least my parents were. We have few happy tales to share and I like that one. It ends happily, doesn’t it?”

You set down your mug, now empty, and tackle them. The ensuing wrestle match turns into a pillow fight which turns out happily for everyone. Namely you won.