The blizzard did not take them away

All night, the blizzard howled over the mountains. Trees cracked like bones. The white wind erased trails, wiped away scents, and hurled needles of cold into the air. But she kept walking. A mother.

Not just a lynx. Not just a creature. She was the one who carried three lives inside her. Three tiny beings curled in the den beneath the cliff, where snow didn’t block the entrance and the rocks still held warmth.

She went out to hunt when any other animal would have hidden. But not her. Her stomach was empty, but she wasn’t hunting for herself. The cubs whimpered from hunger — they hadn’t even opened their eyes, yet already demanded answers from the world. And she could offer only one: food. Life.

Snow stung her eyes. Her paws sank deep into the drifts. The air bit at her nose and lungs. But she crept forward. Carefully. Silently. She remembered where the hare’s burrow had been. She remembered the scent — the scent of life she could bring home.

The hare was near. It sensed her at the last moment. Twitched. Tried to run. But her paws lashed forward like lightning. Her teeth clamped down. Warmth. Blood. A heartbeat. Then — silence.

She didn’t eat. She just carried the kill back. Her strength was fading. But she ran. Through snow, through pain, through the storm. Because they were waiting. Because there was no other way.

She returned when the sky turned gray. Three balls of fur whimpered softly, and she laid the kill before them. Then curled around them, warming them with her body. She slept, while the storm howled above.

By the third day of the blizzard, her steps had grown shorter. Her muscles ached. Time seemed to drain from her with every breath. Still, she walked. Still, she searched. Her paws tore against the crusted ice. Her claws dulled. But she went on.

Under a fallen tree, she found a fresh trail. Narrow. Light. A weasel. Small, but food. She froze. Completely still. Only her ears trembled. When the weasel darted out, it was like lightning. A leap. A strike. Blood. Warmth again. Life again.

This time, she allowed herself a small bite. Just one. The rest — for home.

By evening, she noticed the blizzard had quieted. Not gone — just thickened. Like tired breathing. And in that thickness — silence.

On her way back, she fell into the snow. Her whole body. The blow hit her chest, knocked out her breath. She tried to climb out, but her paws slipped. Ice beneath the snow. The wind returned, slapping her face. She choked. Struggled. Growled. Then — froze.

She remembered the den. The cubs. Their warm sides, their whimpers. Their scent. And she broke free. Scratching. Digging. Crawling. She stood. Staggered. Moved forward.

The den was still there. Just as before. Snow up to her chest, the entrance almost buried. She dug until her chest burned. Inside, it was dark. But she heard breath. Alive. All three. Waiting.

She dragged the weasel in. One cub stirred and pressed to her neck. She licked him and lay down, covering them all with her body.

On the fourth day, she didn’t go out. She simply couldn’t. She lay still. Listening to the wind. Trembling slightly. But breathing. Her cubs drank what warmth remained. She dozed, remembering the scents of summer. Hunting in grass. The sun blinding her. When she herself had been a cub.

Then everything went quiet. The snow stopped. The wind disappeared. She didn’t realize at first. Only after a while did she lift her head. She stood. Stepped outside.

The sky was pale. Gray-white. Like breath. The pines stood still. She inhaled. The air was different. Heavy, but not cruel.

She returned. Looked at the three of them. They slept deeply. One sprawled out like a grown lynx. Another had his nose tucked under his paw. The third twitched his whiskers in his dreams.

She nestled against them. And she knew: the storm had passed. Her cubs would live. They would grow to be hunters. They would remember their mother’s scent, her warmth, and how she fought.

Because the blizzard had not taken them away.

Because she didn’t let it.