Fourth Sto­ry fol­lows Ger­da as she escapes the enchant­ment of a hid­den sum­mer gar­den, where time had qui­et­ly stood still. Her feet, once warmed by end­less blos­soms, now crunch fall­en leaves as autumn greets her return to the real world. Though her legs tire and the wind bites sharp­er, her spir­it does not waver—she press­es on, dri­ven by the mem­o­ry of Kay. Each step for­ward car­ries more than phys­i­cal weight; it holds the emo­tion­al bur­den of some­one who refus­es to let loss turn into sur­ren­der. The road she walks is qui­et and unfa­mil­iar, marked by shift­ing col­ors and fad­ing warmth. But with­in her heart, a fire burns steadily—small, but powerful—guiding her toward some­thing she can­not yet see, but knows must be found.

It is dur­ing this leg of her jour­ney that Ger­da meets a Raven with a glint of wit in his eye and a voice full of rid­dles and news. He lis­tens close­ly as she recounts her tale, moved by her unwa­ver­ing search for the boy who once played with her in a sun­lit court­yard. The Raven, touched and intrigued, offers hope in the form of a rumor: a young man in a far­away palace who impressed a Princess with his sharp mind. The pos­si­bil­i­ty that this man could be Kay breathes ener­gy into Gerda’s tired limbs. With­out delay, the Raven and his companion—a learned, loy­al she-Raven—prepare to help Ger­da reach the roy­al estate. Though strangers in ori­gin, they become allies in pur­pose, bound togeth­er by the unlike­ly mag­ic that draws helpers to those whose love is unselfish and true.

The palace gleams with ele­gance, and its gates are guard­ed by for­mal­i­ty and skep­ti­cism. But clev­er­ness and kind­ness make a path where cre­den­tials can­not, and soon Ger­da finds her­self creep­ing through the halls of roy­al­ty. Her heart races as she nears the bed of the mys­te­ri­ous guest rumored to be the Princess’s cho­sen match. In the still­ness of night, she peers into the shad­owy bed and gasps—her heart leap­ing with the hope that Kay lies before her. The flick­er­ing can­dle­light, how­ev­er, reveals a stranger’s face. Gerda’s hope crash­es down, but tears do not fall, for she knows the jour­ney must go on. The Prince and Princess, both impressed by her brav­ery and moved by her devo­tion, offer com­fort rather than pity.

Rather than send her away emp­ty-hand­ed, the Princess ensures Ger­da leaves in dig­ni­ty. She receives warm clothes, a gold­en car­riage, and food for her journey—gifts that reflect not just char­i­ty but recog­ni­tion of her extra­or­di­nary will. The two Ravens, hav­ing guid­ed her faith­ful­ly, are invit­ed to stay in the palace and enjoy the com­fort they once only dreamed of. Though Gerda’s quest remains incom­plete, she gains some­thing qui­et and powerful—assurance that good­ness attracts good­ness. Her path may twist unex­pect­ed­ly, but kind­ness and courage light it just the same. As she steps back onto the road with new strength, she under­stands that even the wrong cas­tle, the wrong face, can lead her clos­er to what is right.

Every encounter in Gerda’s jour­ney builds more than just distance—it con­structs her resilience. The Princess’s court, while not home to Kay, teach­es her that hope must be flex­i­ble and that despair does not belong in hearts that con­tin­ue for­ward. Though the peo­ple she meets have no oblig­a­tion to help her, many do—each act of gen­eros­i­ty rein­forc­ing a deep truth: love is not always reward­ed with imme­di­ate results, but it is nev­er wast­ed. Andersen’s sto­ry­telling reminds us that even small char­ac­ters like Ravens, and girls with no titles, shape des­tiny with sin­cer­i­ty and effort. The chap­ter qui­et­ly nudges the read­er to believe that real jour­neys require mis­steps, and that even dis­ap­point­ment can leave behind new tools for the soul. In Gerda’s world, every door that doesn’t open to Kay still points toward the one that even­tu­al­ly will.