Ingrid set off, following the shimmering ice trail that seemed to beckon her onwards. The cold nipped at her cheeks, but her spirit was warm with determination. She walked and walked, past frozen fir trees draped in white lace and over hills that sparkled like giant sugar loaves. The sun streamed in, warm and bright for a short while, making everything look quite magical. She hummed a little tune to keep her spirits up, a cozy melody her grandmother had taught her.
As the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, she spotted a small, crooked hut, half-buried in a drift of snow. Smoke curled lazily from its chimney, smelling faintly of juniper and old wood. Peeping through the tiny, frosted window, Ingrid saw three very old women huddled around a crackling fire. Their faces were as crinkly as dried apples, and their eyes, though ancient, twinkled with surprising kindness.
'Come in, child, come in!' cackled one, beckoning her inside. 'The North Wind bites hard this time of year!' Ingrid, a little shy but always polite, stepped into the surprisingly warm and fragrant hut. The three old women offered her a cup of steaming berry tea, which tasted ever so good, and asked her story.