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.