The Cold Beneath the Hearth

In the isolated grip of a boreal winter, Jim, a young boy, observes the chilling unraveling of his parents' relationship, marked by hushed arguments and a mysterious object hidden beneath the snow.

The crackle from the old wood stove was loud. Too loud. It always felt loud when Mum and Dad were quiet. I was on the rug, my cheek pressed into the rough wool. Kara was asleep next to me, breathing soft and easy, her small hand curled around the tail of her stuffed beaver. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes, a thin whine. Snow kept hitting the glass, not hard, just little taps. I wished it was just the snow making the noise.

Mum was sitting on the armchair, not looking at the fire. Her eyes were on the dark rectangle of the window, but I knew she wasn’t seeing the trees. Her mug, chipped blue ceramic, sat on the floor beside her. Steam used to rise from it when Dad poured tea. Now it was just cold. Dad was by the kitchen counter, his back to us, his shoulders hunched a bit like when he was cold even inside. His fingers, big and calloused from the saw, kept turning the radio knob. Little clicks. Static hiss, then a bit of muffled talking, like a far-off conversation that wasn't for us. Then static again, louder this time, like the radio was mad. He wasn't really listening. His head tilted a little, like he was trying not to listen to the quiet between him and Mum, or maybe listening for something else entirely, something hidden in the snow outside or under the floorboards. His boot scraped the worn linoleum. Just a little sound, but it made me jump.

Then Mum spoke, not loud. Just a breath, really. "Where were you?" she asked, still looking at the window, like the question was for the spruce trees. Dad stopped turning the knob. The static just fizzed now, a low hum, like a bee stuck in a jar. He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, his back still to us, a statue made of tired. I watched his shoulders. They looked stiff. Like he was holding something heavy inside him.

"Out," Dad said. His voice was flat, like the tabletop. "Had to check the traps. Snow was piling." Kara shifted in her sleep, a small sigh. I held my breath. Mum didn't say anything back. Just the wind and the static. The silence filled up the cabin, pushing against the walls. It felt like a bad thing, like when a storm was coming and the air went all still and heavy before the wind hit. Dad turned around then. His eyes found me, just for a second, then slid away. They were grey, like the winter sky, with little red lines in the whites. He looked old. Older than he did yesterday. His face had a tired stretch around his mouth.

"Tea?" he asked Mum. His voice was softer this time, but it still felt like he was asking a question he already knew the answer to. Mum shook her head. Didn't even look at him. Just kept staring at the dark glass. Dad made a sound, like air getting let out of a balloon very slowly. He poured himself a mug from the kettle on the stove, the water steaming up the glass. He put a big spoon of sugar in, two spoons. He usually only used one. He clinked the spoon against the ceramic, a sharp, tiny noise in the big quiet. He sat down at the kitchen table, far away from Mum, and just held the mug. Didn't drink it.

My stomach felt squishy, like I'd eaten too much berry pie. But I hadn't eaten anything. Kara stirred again. "Cold," she mumbled, her eyes still closed. I pulled the rough wool blanket higher over her shoulders. She sniffled a little. I wanted to ask Mum and Dad what was wrong, what made them so quiet, but the words felt stuck in my throat, big and lumpy. They wouldn't come out. I just watched them. Two grown-ups, sitting in the same small room, but feeling a million miles apart.

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### The Buried Thing

Hours later, when Kara was awake and eating her porridge, sticky oats on her chin, Dad went outside. He put on his big parka, the one that smelled of pine needles and woodsmoke. He said he was going to check the trap lines again, even though he'd just said he'd checked them. Mum just nodded, not looking up from her book. A new book. She usually read the same ones over and over.

I watched Dad from the window, pressing my nose against the cold glass. My breath fogged it up. He walked past the woodshed, his boots crunching in the fresh powder. Not towards the usual path to the trap lines, though. He veered left, towards the old outhouse, the one we didn't use much in winter. It was just a small, leaning shack, nearly buried in snow. He stopped behind it, out of sight from Mum, who was still reading. I ducked down, like he might feel me watching. I could only see the very top of his head, his toque a red dot against the white.

He knelt. I squinted, trying to see better. His arm moved, digging. Not with a shovel, just his hands. He pushed snow aside, revealing the dark, frozen ground beneath. He had something in his hand. A small thing. Dark, like a rock, but too square. He pushed it into the hollow he'd made, covering it with handfuls of snow. Fast. Then he stood up, brushed his hands on his trousers, and stomped his feet. He looked around, quick, like he was checking if anyone saw. His eyes scanned the cabin windows. I dropped behind the curtains, my heart thumping against my ribs. I felt hot, even though the glass was cold on my cheek. He didn't see me.

He walked back, his steps heavy in the snow, leaving big boot prints. He came inside, stamping his feet on the mat by the door, shaking snow from his parka. The cold air from outside rushed in with him, smelling of ice and damp earth. "Finished," he said, his voice a little louder now, trying to sound normal. Mum just grunted from her book. He took off his parka, hung it on the hook, and sat down at the table again. This time he picked up his cold tea, took a sip, and made a face.

Kara looked up from her porridge. "Dad, can we build a snowman?" she asked, her mouth full. "Later, sweetie," he said, patting her head. His hand felt heavy on her fine hair. "Got to melt the snow for water first." He looked at Mum. She finally looked up. Her eyes met his. Not a soft look. Not an angry look either. Just... empty. Like she was looking through him. I saw it. I saw the way his shoulders slumped just a little when she looked at him like that. He quickly looked away, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth. I wanted to go outside, to see what he buried. My legs felt like jumping.

I ate my toast slowly, watching them both. Dad got up, started piling more wood in the stove. The flames licked at the fresh logs, sending sparks up the chimney. Mum closed her book, put it down on the small table next to her chair. She didn't open another one. She just sat there. The quiet came back. It was a different quiet now, though. Before, it was like a blanket. Now, it was like a wall. A thick, icy wall between them.

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### A Thread of Red

Later that afternoon, Kara decided she wanted to play dress-up. She dragged out the big chest from under my bed, the one with old clothes from Mum and Dad, and some things Grandma made. Dust motes danced in the thin shafts of light from the window, the only kind of dancing happening in the room. Kara pulled out an old hat, a lacy scarf, a big shirt. She looked like a small, colourful mess.

"Look, Jim!" she squealed, twirling in a too-big skirt. I watched her, trying to smile. But my stomach still felt squishy. My mind kept going back to Dad, kneeling in the snow behind the outhouse. The small, dark thing. What was it? Why did he hide it? I tried to remember if I'd ever seen him do that before. Never. He usually just put things in the shed, or in the barn. Not buried in the freezing ground.

Kara dug deeper into the chest. "Ooh, what's this?" she asked, pulling something out. It was a scarf. But not one I knew. It was bright red, made of soft, fuzzy wool, not the thick, scratchy kind Mum knitted. And it had tassels. Long, bright red tassels. Mum didn't have a red scarf like that. Hers were all plain, or blue or grey, to match the winter sky. This one felt… fancy.

Kara held it up to her neck. "It's pretty," she said. Mum walked in just then, carrying a basket of folded laundry. She stopped dead when she saw the scarf. Her eyes went wide, like when she saw a moose outside the window. Her face went pale, whiter than the snow outside. The laundry basket tilted in her hands, and a couple of Dad's shirts spilled onto the floor.

"Where... where did you get that, Kara?" Mum asked. Her voice wasn't flat anymore. It was sharp. Like a twig snapping. Kara looked confused. "From the chest," she said, pointing a small, grubby finger. "With the other clothes." Mum dropped the basket completely. Shirts and trousers lay scattered around her feet. She walked over to Kara, slow, like she was wading through deep water. She took the scarf from Kara's neck. Her fingers were tight around the wool. They looked like they might break it.

Mum held the red scarf up, her eyes narrowing. She turned it over, then over again. Like it was something she’d never seen before, or something she was trying to recognise. But the way her mouth was set, and the frown lines between her eyebrows, told me she recognised it, just not in a good way. She didn't look at Kara. She looked past her, towards the door, towards the wall where Dad's parka hung. Then her eyes went to me. A quick, sharp glance. I looked away fast, pretending to tie my bootlaces, even though they weren't untied. I felt like I was holding a secret, too. Dad's secret. And now this. The red scarf.

The air in the cabin got thick again, heavy with whatever Mum was thinking. Kara tugged at Mum's trousers. "Can I have it back?" she asked, her voice small. Mum didn't answer. She just walked to the wood stove, where the fire was roaring, orange light spilling out. She stood there, holding the red scarf. Her hand, holding it, was shaking. Just a little. But I saw it. My stomach was really hurting now. Like someone was twisting it.

"Is that Dad's?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I knew it wasn't. But I needed to say something. To make a sound. To break the silence that felt like it was going to swallow us all up. Mum didn't look at me. She just stared at the red scarf, her knuckles white where she gripped it. The fire hissed and popped, eager for something to burn. Her lips moved, just a tiny bit, like she was saying a word to herself. But no sound came out. It was all just quiet again. A heavy, scary quiet.

Then, from outside, I heard it. The crunch of boots on snow. Heavy, deliberate steps. Heading towards the cabin. Dad was coming back. Mum heard it too. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with something I didn't understand. Fear? Anger? Both? She looked from the scarf to the door, then back to the scarf. Her face was still pale, but now there was a red flush high on her cheekbones, like she'd been out in the bitter wind too long.

She crammed the red scarf, quickly, almost violently, into the pocket of her apron. The apron she wore every day, with the little flower embroidery. It was a tight fit. The fabric bulged slightly. But it was hidden. Just as Dad's thing was hidden in the snow. The door pushed open, and a blast of cold air, stinging and fresh, made the curtains ripple. Dad stepped inside, shaking snow from his toque. He smelled of frozen pine and the faint, coppery scent of his traps. He smiled. A small, thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. His eyes were still grey, like the winter sky. He looked at Mum. "Everything alright in here?" he asked. His voice was too loud for the small room. Too bright. Mum just nodded. Didn't speak. Her hand was pressed against her apron pocket, where the red scarf was hidden. I watched her hand. It was still shaking.

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### Echoes on the Wind

Dinner was silent again. Just the clinking of forks on plates, the soft sizzle of the wood stove. Dad told us a story about a big moose track he saw, but his voice sounded forced, like he was trying to push the words out. Kara listened, her eyes wide, but I couldn’t. My food tasted like ash. I kept thinking about the red scarf in Mum’s apron, and the dark, square thing under the snow behind the outhouse. It felt like the cabin was full of holes, and secrets were leaking out, slowly, making everything cold.

After dinner, when Kara was already in her bunk, asleep with her beaver, I lay awake. The moon was a sliver of white through the window, making long, sharp shadows on the floorboards. The wind howled outside, a lonely sound. I heard Mum and Dad talking, very low, from the kitchen. Just whispers. Like two owls in the dark. I couldn’t make out the words. Just the hushed, urgent tones. A little scraping sound, like a chair moving. Then quiet again. Then a short, sharp sound. A sigh? A gasp? I couldn't tell. My ears strained, trying to hear, trying to understand. What were they talking about? What was wrong? Was it the red scarf? Was it Dad's buried thing?

My eyes felt heavy, but my mind wouldn't stop. I pictured the red scarf, bright against the white snow. I pictured Dad, digging with his bare hands. The sounds from the kitchen stopped. Just the wind. I closed my eyes tight. It felt like the whole world was a secret, and I was too little to understand any of it. But I knew one thing. Something was broken. Something was really, really broken. And the cold from outside, the endless winter of the boreal forest, felt like it was seeping into our cabin, into our family, freezing everything from the inside out. I just wanted to ask them, 'Are we going to be okay?' But I knew I couldn't. I just lay there, listening to the wind and my own quick heartbeat, wondering if the next morning would be the same, or if the cold would have finally won.

The last thing I heard before sleep finally claimed me was a faint, almost imperceptible metallic clink from the direction of the outhouse, muffled by the howling wind and the thick walls of the cabin. It sounded like something hitting frozen ground, small and sharp. I didn't know if I dreamt it, or if it was real. But the sound stayed with me, a tiny, chilling echo against the vast, dark silence of the winter night.