The White Silence

The old Land Rover’s engine groaned, then died, a final, rattling sigh swallowed by the absolute hush of the winter forest. Ronnie sat for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white. The snow had piled high, undisturbed, around the cabin’s squat, dark silhouette. No tracks but his own. The air inside the vehicle was already chilling, a metallic tang of cold mixing with the faint scent of stale coffee. He hadn’t expected the silence to feel quite so… heavy. Like a weight settled upon the snow-laden pines. He switched off the headlights, plunging the scene into a near-total darkness, only the faint shimmer of distant starlight reflecting off the pristine, unbroken white. It was late. Later than he’d intended. Always was.

A long breath, misting in the frigid air. The door creaked open, a shriek of tortured metal, then clunked shut with a muffled thud. The crunch of his boots on the packed snow felt amplified, intrusive. He dragged his duffel from the boot, the canvas stiff with cold. The wind, when it came, wasn’t sharp, just a steady, relentless pressure, seeping through his heavy wool coat. It carried the scent of frozen earth and something else, something undefinable, like forgotten time. He looked up at the cabin windows. Dark, unblinking eyes. A thin, almost imperceptible film of ice clung to the glass panes, obscuring whatever lay within. Had he forgotten to close a shutter last year? A small, insignificant detail, yet it snagged, a burr under the skin of his unease.

He climbed the three wooden steps to the small porch, each one groaning under his weight. The porch light, a bare bulb encased in frosted glass, was off. No surprise. He’d flipped the main breaker on his way out last winter. His fingers fumbled with the key, cold metal against colder lock. It bit, turned, a solid click. As he pushed the door inward, a gust of air, still and frigid, seemed to spill out, carrying with it a faint, cloying sweetness — beeswax and something else, something sharp, like old iron. On the weathered timber of the porch floor, nestled in a small, swept-clear semicircle near the doorframe, lay a stub of a red candle. Melted down to a misshapen pool, half-buried in a thin dusting of fresh powder. Someone had been here. Or, perhaps, something. But why a candle?

The Unlit Hearth

The interior of the cabin was a tomb of cold. The kind of cold that seeped into bones, tasted like dust and absence. Ronnie flicked the light switch, and the overhead bulb in the living room sputtered, then bathed the space in a weak, yellow glow. His breath plumed. He hadn't expected it to be quite *this* cold. The old stone fireplace, usually the heart of the cabin, looked like a gaping maw, ash-filled and long-extinguished. He dropped his bag by the heavy oak table, the thud echoing in the stillness.

He walked slowly, his boots thudding softly on the wide plank floors. A thin layer of fine grey dust coated every surface, undisturbed. The faint smell of beeswax was stronger now, mixed with something else, a ghost of turpentine. Serina. She’d been here. He found her easel tucked into a corner of the main room, near the large window that overlooked the frozen lake. A canvas rested on it, mostly covered by a drop cloth. He hesitated, his fingers brushing against the rough fabric. Curiosity, or perhaps a premonition, tugged at him.

He pulled the cloth back. The painting was unfinished, a swirling maelstrom of greys, deep blues, and stark white. A winter scene, yes, but not of the lake or the pines. It was abstract, impressionistic, a frantic chaos of brushstrokes that spoke of a blizzard, but also something more primal, more desperate. At its centre, a single, black, skeletal tree clawed at a sky the colour of bruised ice. He stared, a shiver unrelated to the cold tracing its way down his spine. It was unsettling. Too visceral.

He moved away from the painting, a faint ringing in his ears. The silence pressed in again, no longer heavy, but thin, stretched. He walked into the small kitchen. Empty. The fridge hummed, a low, mechanical growl. He opened it; a half-empty carton of milk, a wilting head of lettuce. She had left things. Not cleared out. Why? This was more than just a quick visit. He closed the fridge, the sound sharp in the quiet. His eyes caught on something: a tiny, red plastic robin, the kind you’d hang on a Christmas tree, lying on the counter beside the sink. It felt out of place, a splash of colour in a monochrome world.

A memory flickered. Christmas. Years ago. The same robin. Serina, maybe eight, insisting it was the luckiest ornament. He remembered the arguments, the laughter. But also… something else. A tension. The way his father’s voice had lowered. The quick, darting glances between his parents. He couldn’t quite grasp it, the details always dissolving at the edge of his consciousness, like ice melting into water.

He ran a hand over his stubbled chin. The cabin was warmer now, or perhaps he was just getting used to it. No. A faint warmth emanated from the floorboards near the fireplace. The embers. Still faintly alive? Impossible. He’d doused the fire himself last year. He knelt, peering into the dark maw. Nothing. Just cold, dead ash. His mind playing tricks. The long drive. The isolation. But the robin, the candle… they weren’t tricks.

He heard the floorboard creak, distinct, from upstairs. His head snapped up. His breath hitched. He strained his ears, but there was only the low hum of the fridge, the gentle sigh of the wind outside. He walked to the foot of the stairs, hands clenching at his sides. The old wooden steps stretched upwards into shadow. He could feel it now, the distinct sensation of being observed. His own paranoia, perhaps, blooming in the isolation. He started up, slowly, each step a deliberate, weighted commitment.

The first landing. The air here was even colder, almost biting. He reached the top. Three doors. His room, Serina’s, and the guest room. All closed. He pushed his own door open, just a crack. Darkness. He peered in. His old bed, stripped of linens, the bare mattress a pale rectangle in the gloom. He stepped inside, feeling the sudden, sharp drop in temperature. He moved to the window, pulling aside the heavy velvet curtain. The lake, frozen solid, stretched out under the faint moonlight. A solitary figure stood on the ice, far out, barely discernible, a dark smudge against the vast white expanse. His heart hammered. He blinked, hard. The figure was gone. Just the unbroken white, the endless, indifferent snow.

"Ronnie?"

The voice, thin and reedy, came from downstairs. Serina. He hadn't heard the door. He hadn't heard her car. His hands were shaking. He descended the stairs, one foot after the other, the sound of his boots unnaturally loud. She stood in the living room, silhouetted against the open front door, a flurry of snow clinging to her dark hair and heavy coat. Her face was pale, almost translucent in the dim light. Her eyes, wide and dark, seemed to swallow the light.

"You're here," she said, her voice flat, devoid of inflection. Her gaze flickered to the easel, then back to him. Her lips were chapped, a thin line across her face.

"So are you," he managed, his own voice sounding hoarse. He cleared his throat. "The candle on the porch? And… the painting."

She didn't answer. Just hugged herself, a small, tight gesture. A snowflake, melted to a bead of water, trickled down her cheek. Or was it something else? Her eyes seemed to hold a vast, unreadable weariness, an ancient sadness. He didn't know what to say. The cabin had become a cage, the silence a roar. And now, she was here, another layer of enigma on top of the already unsettling mystery. The air around them felt charged, heavy with unspoken things, with forgotten Christmases and promises broken under a sky the colour of bruised ice. He realised then, with a sickening certainty, that he didn't want to know.

"What is it?" he asked, the words thin, barely a whisper. "What happened here?" But she just looked at him, her gaze distant, fixed on something he couldn't see, a faint, unsettling smile playing on her lips, as if she knew a joke he wasn't privy to, a joke with a very sharp, very cold punchline.