Anna Winnie Smith

Anna Winnie Smith is only five years old, but she carries herself with the quiet certainty of someone who has been watching the world far longer. Born in 108 SE to Felecia and Frank Smith, she has grown up within the walls of Camp Hope, absorbing its rhythms, its dangers, and its unspoken rules. Her trust is not freely given—anyone who has been around for less than six months is met with wary eyes and guarded silence. It isn’t meanness; it’s survival, a habit formed from seeing strangers come and go, sometimes leaving trouble in their wake.

She moves through the camp with a kind of endearing clumsiness, tripping over her own feet or fumbling with whatever she carries, yet her eyes—sharp, perceptive, quietly knowing—miss nothing. Anna has a gift for music, particularly the wooden flute she keeps close. She can play any song she hears, weaving sound from memory alone, and she has the patience and skill to teach others to do the same.

When she speaks, it’s in a voice so soft you have to lean in to catch the words, but she rarely repeats herself if you miss them. And when she does decide to speak up, her blunt honesty cuts through any pretense, often voicing what others are too polite—or too afraid—to say. Her dreams are bigger than her small frame suggests; she is determined to prove herself worthy of a better life. Her bond to Camp Hope runs deep—this is her home, and she would fight to protect it, though her courage has its limits. If outnumbered, she’s quick to run, trusting she’ll live to fight another day.

Even at five, Anna seems to be a small paradox: tender yet sharp, clumsy yet wise, timid in action yet bold in truth. In a place where survival shapes character, she is already becoming someone who will not be easily forgotten.