Third Sto­ry opens as lit­tle Ger­da reach­es the edge of a flow­ing riv­er, her eyes search­ing its end­less sur­face for any sign of Kay. Though rumors and grief might tempt her to believe he’s drowned, she refus­es to accept it. When the sun­shine kiss­es her cheeks and the swal­lows fly past with cheer­ful songs, she takes these as gen­tle refusals of sorrow—small signs that Kay still lives. In a des­per­ate offer­ing, she removes her red shoes, those same shoes Kay had nev­er seen, and lays them on the riv­er in hopes it will return her dear­est friend. Her shoes are swept away only to be washed back ashore, an act that both com­forts and dis­ap­points her. Despite the gesture’s fail­ure, Gerda’s resolve grows stronger, fueled by the belief that sac­ri­fice alone may not bring her answers—but per­sis­tence just might.

She climbs into a near­by boat, not real­iz­ing the cur­rent has begun to pull her along. With no oars and no one to call for help, she finds her­self drift­ing fur­ther from the famil­iar. The river­banks slip past slow­ly, with trees bend­ing toward her and birds flut­ter­ing over­head, but none offer answers. The boat feels like a cra­dle and a cage all at once. Ger­da calls out to Kay with each turn in the riv­er, hop­ing the water will car­ry her voice. The qui­etude of the jour­ney, paired with the gen­tle rip­pling of water, allows space for wor­ry to blos­som into lone­li­ness. Yet amid the iso­la­tion, she does not cry. She clings to the image of Kay, as though each bend in the riv­er might car­ry her clos­er to him.

Even­tu­al­ly, the riv­er brings her to a cot­tage nes­tled in green, its win­dows bor­dered by paint­ed sun­flow­ers and vines that seem to hum with enchant­ment. An old woman greets her with open arms and sweet smiles, offer­ing rest and a warm bed. Her kind­ness appears end­less, but her true inten­tions remain hid­den beneath the sur­face. A comb pass­es through Gerda’s hair not just to tame it, but to pull away her thoughts of Kay. The flow­ers around the house bloom in mag­i­cal col­ors, and their petals whis­per non­sense and lul­la­bies. Time soft­ens inside the witch’s gar­den, and mem­o­ry begins to blur. Gerda’s heart, once set like a com­pass toward Kay, starts to sway under the weight of com­fort and for­get­ful­ness.

But love has its own roots, and Ger­da notices some­thing miss­ing. Among the thou­sands of blos­soms in the enchant­ed gar­den, not one rose grows. This absence stirs a deep ache inside her, and with it, her mem­o­ries of Kay return like a sud­den storm. She rush­es to the rosebeds and begs for news, hop­ing the petals might whis­per some­thing true. What the witch’s spell tried to sup­press, the rose rekindles—proof that even in the face of com­fort and illu­sion, gen­uine affec­tion can­not be erased. Ger­da gath­ers her­self and steps away from the gar­den. The mag­ic no longer holds her. Her jour­ney resumes with greater strength, not because she found Kay, but because she remem­bered why she start­ed.

The gar­den may have delayed her, but it also became a test of spir­it. Ger­da learns that the things which dis­tract us often appear beau­ti­ful and gen­er­ous, but their sweet­ness is fleet­ing when weighed against true pur­pose. The witch, though not cru­el in appear­ance, rep­re­sents all that tries to anchor us with com­fort when dis­com­fort is nec­es­sary for growth. Through Gerda’s eyes, we are remind­ed that a sin­gle rose can mean more than a thou­sand bright­ly col­ored blooms. Her heart, now burn­ing with remem­brance, becomes a light against the fog of enchant­ment. And so, she walks forward—not with fear, but with a calm and steady cer­tain­ty. Kay is out there. And Ger­da, no mat­ter the dis­tance or dan­ger, will find him.