A vast, flat expanse of white under a muted grey Winnipeg sky. The air is so cold it looks crystalline. Every surface is coated in a layer of fresh, untouched snow.
SOUND of wind, a low and constant presence
JIMMY DUTTON (30s), bundled in a well-worn parka and toque, walks along a barely-visible path. His face is chapped red by the cold. With every exhale, his breath plumes in a thick, frosty cloud.
He holds the leash for BARNABY, a Labrador whose white muzzle is dusted with snow. Barnaby looks up at him, patient.
Jimmy blows on his gloved fingertips.
Barnaby gives a soft WHIMPER, pulling gently on the leash.
They CRUNCH through the fresh powder. The park is hushed, still. Skeletal trees hold clumps of snow like fragile ornaments.
They pass a series of indistinct lumps buried under snowdrifts.
CLOSE ON Jimmy's face. A flicker of memory in his eyes.
Barnaby sniffs intently at the base of a snow-laden pine.
They arrive at a metal archway. The paint has peeled away, leaving blooms of rust across its surface. It looks less like a gate and more like an abandoned relic.
Jimmy stops. He runs a gloved finger over something carved into the metal. We can just make out the crude letters: 'J.D.'
The metal is shockingly cold, even through the wool.
He looks from the initials to the empty path ahead.
Barnaby responds with a gentle tug on the leash, ready to move on. Jimmy manages a small, wry chuckle.
The path dips, following the line of a frozen creek. A solid sheet of white ice, broken only by a few dark, stubborn veins of moving water.
Barnaby snuffles at a snowdrift, a cloud of white puffing up around his nose. A creature of pure winter.
In the distance, a skeletal SWING SET, its chains thick with rust. Beyond it, a modest hill rises, a smooth, untouched canvas of snow.
Jimmy stares at it. The air grows heavy with memory.
A brief, impressionistic FLASHBACK:
-- WARM, SATURATED. The sun is bright. KELSIE (10), her face flushed from the cold, looks at JIMMY (10) with wide, expectant eyes. He opens his mouth to speak--
-- SMASH! A snowball, thrown by CARL (10), explodes against the side of Jimmy's head. The moment is shattered. Kelsie erupts in laughter.
BACK TO PRESENT
Jimmy kicks at a snowdrift. The CRUNCH is loud in the quiet.
Barnaby mistakes it for play, pouncing into the disturbed snow with an enthusiastic wriggle. He looks up at Jimmy, a chunk of snow on his nose, tail thumping softly.
Jimmy cracks a genuine smile, the first we've seen.
He looks around. The same trees, just older. The same slopes, just more worn. A mirror reflecting a version of himself he barely recognizes.
They circle back, retracing their steps. The chill is seeping deeper into Jimmy's bones. His nose drips.
Suddenly, Barnaby stops. He goes rigid. His nose is pressed deep into the snow near a messy pile of sticks and branches.
He starts digging. Not sniffing, but DIGGING. Frantic. Urgent. Sprays of snow fly over his back.
But this is different. Jimmy's curiosity piques, cutting through his melancholic haze. He walks over.
He kneels, his knees protesting the cold.
He gently pushes Barnaby aside. Under a layer of half-frozen soil and matted leaves, dislodged by Barnaby’s paws, is a small, grey object.
He pulls it from the earth.
It's a disposable camera. Mud-caked. Waterlogged. The plastic casing is brittle and faded.
Jimmy's breath hitches.
He carefully scrapes away the caked-on mud with his thumb. The weight of it in his hand feels improbable, significant.
CLOSE ON JIMMY'S FACE
His expression shifts. The oppressive weight of his nostalgia gives way to something else. A sharp, electric focus.
A single, fleeting image flashes behind his eyes:
-- KELSIE, smiling, caught in a blaze of summer sun, her image grainy and slightly overexposed, just like a photo from a disposable camera. --
BACK TO JIMMY
The cold of the camera in his hand is different now. Not bone-deep, but galvanizing.
Barnaby nudges his hand, a soft, warm press against his cold knuckles. He looks up, as if to ask, 'Well? What now?'
Jimmy stands, brushing snow from his coat, the camera clutched tight in his fist.
He looks out at the horizon. The wind picks up, whipping a fine spray of snow across his face, but he barely feels it.
The blank, melancholic look is gone. In its place, a flicker of warmth. A question. An invitation.
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