The winter day was drawing to an end, painting the sky over the village of the Bear clan in shades of crimson. Inside Brunga's hut, where the fire crackled in the hearth, the warm, spicy aroma of lingonberry pie reigned. Logs crackled, casting wavering shadows on the walls, where bundles of dried herbs and bunches of fragrant roots hung. Brunga, sitting on a low bench, was sorted through dried herbs with a concentrated look, her hands, seemingly rough, moved deftly and carefully.

Snow fell softly rustling outside the window, shrouding the village in a white veil. Brunga, listening to the howling of the wind, was mentally transported to the past. She remembered the day when they brought her a tiny cub crying in rags, a girl who miraculously survived the raid of her relatives. Brunga, who was not used to such finds, nevertheless could not turn away from her grief.

Many years have passed since then. She instructed her, putting all her wisdom into her. She taught her to understand the language of the forest, to distinguish between medicinal herbs and, of course, to be strong. And now this day has come. After a long voyage, a young woman who left home under the cover of autumn had to return, hardened by the winds and sea salt. Silence reigned in the hut, interrupted only by the crackling of firewood and the quiet muttering of Brunga, who listed the ingredients for a medicinal decoction to herself. She kept glancing at the door, waiting for someone to knock on it, for her little bear to come home.