In the woods, I came upon a cottage, in which lived an old woman and her grown son. The winter snows were blowing and I was lost. They let me stay with them, this woman and her son.

The cottage was warm and snug against the winds. The woman and her son had filled it to the rafters with their garden's bounty, dried and canned and cured. They ate only what they had grown or gathered from the woods. They wore only what they spun and weaved and sewed. The two interacted with the outside world not at all, and yet they seemed content.

"Are you never lonely?" I asked, one evening by the crackling fire.

The man's eyes sparked as he looked at me. He began to tell a story—of a spinning wheel and of long dark hair like my own.

But the old woman interrupted and her voice was sharp when she turned to me. "Don't ask questions if you don't want answers."

"I do want them," I said.

Then the man described the feel of the yarn as it twisted and steel-gray eyes, just like mine. A chill swept the length of me.

I changed the subject.

The old woman began to laugh. "But we can sew a companion just as easily as we spin one," she said.

And then the two of them pieced together a doll from the scraps in the old woman's basket. When all the parts were stitched and in their proper places, the doll came to life.

This doll was a joyful thing, made of patchwork and held together with zippers and buttons and snaps. When she played in the morning, she would rearrange her hands and feet and swing off the rafters among the dried herbs. She'd swap her eyes and nose and flip her ears upside down. And when night fell, the doll would let me button her eyes closed and zip her mouth shut and she would sleep.

As the doll slept, the old woman and her son would spin. I never learned, but I watched them. It was the bloom of a flower, but in reverse, the way it tunneled. It was beautiful and I was entranced. When the spring came, the man and his mother asked if I might stay longer. I agreed.

I worked the earth in their small patch of garden, learning the name of each sprout as it emerged. The garden was smaller, it seemed, than could feed us, but the sun warmed the earth and my skin, and I never thought too hard about it. I had learned to keep my questions.

Some days the doll-child and I would wander into the forest, though the old woman warned of wolves and how easy it was to become lost.

When I was busy, the doll-child wandered alone. To keep her safe, I pulled a loose thread on the patchwork of her arm, unraveled it to a good length and tied it, carefully, to the doorknob of the cottage. In the evening, I would tug the thread, so gently, and she would follow it home. She would emerge with the brightest of berries or an apron full of wildflowers. Or perhaps a rabbit, headless, that we could roast or stew.

When the snows came again, I was still living in this cottage, with the old woman, the man, and the doll-child. The old woman and the man would spin, and I would watch the thread emerge. I would watch the ice crystals spiral on the window panes. The doll-child would swap hands for feet and eyes for ears and play among the pumpkins and the squash.

But the doll-child grew restless. One day I bundled her up and tied the string of her wrist around the doorknob. Off she skipped into the snowy woods. The wind blew harder. When the sun began to drop and potatoes were in the oven, I gave a gentle pull to the yarn that bound her.

She did not come. I tugged again, slightly harder. She did not come. Yet a third time, I pulled, but she did not return.

I put on my own coat and boots and mittens. I held a thumb to the yarn on the door, but didn't untie it. I stepped into the swirling snows, my footprints vanishing behind me.

The snow was bright. The air was cold. The blowing wind was the yarn, unravelling.

I had my thumb on the yarn, but then I did not, and I was lost.

I walked for days.

Eventually, I came upon a city, and I remembered it as my home. I found an identical unit in the apartment building I had left and a job just like my old one, entering strings of data.

The time at the cottage became like a dream, but I know it was not. I know the old woman and the man and the doll-child are in the woods still. Perhaps together. Or perhaps she is still lost.

Some days, I feel a chill. I wonder who spins at the wheel in the cottage and when they will call me back.

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