A vast, unforgiving winter landscape. A stark grey sky presses down on an endless blanket of packed snow.
SOUND of wind, the rhythmic CRUNCH... CRUNCH... CRUNCH of boots.
SEAN (17), quiet and observant, drags his feet, kicking at frozen chunks of earth.
A dozen paces ahead, ALICE (18), sharp and pragmatic, stops. Her breath plumes in the frigid air. She turns, impatient.
Sean doesn’t speed up. He squints towards the horizon.
In the distance, a dark, dilapidated structure mars the white expanse: THE OLD LODGE. It looks like a hunched, skeletal beast.
She gives him a challenging look, then turns and walks again.
Sean says nothing. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, the worn leather of his gloves rough against his knuckles. He glances from the distant lodge back to his sister’s retreating form. The weight of this place, of everything unspoken, settles on his shoulders.
A gust of wind whips stray strands of Alice’s hair across her face. She shivers, pulling her scarf tighter over her mouth.
They continue in silence.
They arrive at a neglected section of barbed wire fence. It sags, strands snapped, half-buried in heavy drifts. Skeletal branches are caught in the wire like bony fingers. It’s a bleak, forgotten corner of the estate.
Alice breaks the quiet, her voice lower, the usual sarcasm gone.
Sean stops dead. His stomach tightens.
The name—Silas—hangs in the frigid air.
Alice sighs, turning to the fence.
She starts trying to disentangle a branch. But Sean isn’t looking at the fence. His gaze is fixed on something just beyond it.
Nestled amongst a cluster of snow-dusted cedars is a small, crude CAIRN of stones. It looks old, unnatural.
He pushes through a low-hanging cedar branch. The air here is stiller, colder. A faint, metallic tang hangs in the air.
He kneels. Brushes fresh powder off the top stone with a gloved hand. Beneath it, something else. The rusted edge of metal.
He doesn’t answer. Alice appears beside him, her annoyance replaced by a sudden unease.
Sean works his fingers under the edge of the metal. It’s an old, iron-bound BOX, wedged in the frozen earth. He grunts, pulling.
With a GROAN of rusted metal and a CRACK of ice, the lid lifts a few inches.
She kneels beside him, her breath puffing in nervous bursts.
Sean pulls the lid all the way back. Inside:
A small, tarnished SILVER LOCKET, its chain tangled.
Beneath it, a brittle, folded piece of paper, yellowed with age.
His numb fingers carefully retrieve the paper. It CRACKLES. An old newspaper clipping. The print is faded but legible.
CLOSE ON THE CLIPPING
Alice’s finger traces the words as she reads aloud.
BACK TO SCENE
Alice pulls back, her voice a shocked whisper.
Sean’s face is grim. He picks up the heavy locket. Fumbles with the clasp. It springs open.
Inside, two impossibly faded photographs. One of a young, shyly smiling woman. The other, scratched and discolored, of a small child. A girl.
SNAP!
A sharp, definitive sound. A heavy twig breaking under a boot. It comes from the dense line of spruce trees, fifty meters away.
Sean’s head shoots up. His heart hammers his ribs. The thrill of discovery evaporates, replaced by ice-cold dread.
Alice is already scrambling to her feet, her face pale, all bravado gone. Her eyes dart towards the trees.
He shoves the locket and clipping into his coat pocket. With trembling hands, he pushes the stones of the cairn back over the box. A clumsy, panicked attempt at concealment.
He stands, scanning the tree line, trying to pierce the gloom of the approaching twilight. Nothing. Just swaying branches.
They turn and plunge back into the open field. Boots churn through the snow, their breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.
Sean glances over his shoulder. The trees are still. The feeling of being watched is a physical weight on his back.
They collapse at the edge of the manicured lawn, lungs burning. In the distance, the main house glows with warm, inviting light. A fragile sanctuary.
Alice leans against a maple tree, gasping for air.
Sean stands, clutching his coat pocket. He can feel the hard, cold outline of the locket against his ribs.
SOUND of faint, clattering dishes and muffled voices from the house. Normalcy.
He looks back at the dark expanse of Silverwood they just fled.
Light, feathery snowflakes begin to fall, drifting down, slowly erasing their frantic tracks. Blanketing the secret.
CLOSE ON SEAN
His face is a mask of fear, confusion, and a dawning, terrible resolve. The warm light of the house behind him, the vast, dark woods before him. He is caught between two worlds.
The snow falls faster, absorbing all sound, leaving only the quiet pulse of his own blood and the chilling knowledge that what they unearthed can never be buried again.
FADE TO BLACK.
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