A cozy, warm space fighting a losing battle against the cold grey light of dawn. Snowflakes, huge and lazy, cling to the windowpane.
SOUND of a house groaning to life: the low hum of a fridge, the distant thrum of central heating.
CLOSE ON a mug of hot chocolate. A mountain of marshmallows floats on top. Steam curls, smelling of cocoa and sugar.
Another mug is nudged into frame, this one belonging to JACOB (10), his brown hair flopping over his eyes.
PATRICIA (8), in fluffy rabbit pyjamas, sits opposite him. She’s the owner of the first mug.
Jacob blows on his mug, not looking at her. He’s focused on the snow smudging the world outside.
He takes a loud, performative SLURP, sucking a marshmallow in. A smudge of chocolate appears on his chin. He doesn’t notice. Patricia giggles.
Jacob taps his fingers on the cool glass of the window.
This is their ritual. Their secret club. The warmth is a blanket against the chill seeping in from the window.
Footsteps, light on the floorboards. Patricia’s head swivels.
MUM (30s) enters. She smells of sleep and flowery soap. But her morning smile is small, a ribbon pulled too tight. Her shoulders are hunched.
Her voice is gravelly. She goes straight to the kettle, ignoring their marshmallow mountains. Jacob stops tapping the window. He glances at Patricia, then quickly down at his mug.
Mum doesn’t answer. She fills the kettle.
SOUND of the KETTLE beginning to HISS, a thin, anxious sound that starts to climb.
She drops a single teabag into a plain mug. Pours the water. No milk. Just dark, plain tea.
She sits opposite them, wrapping her thin fingers around the mug. She stares out the window, past the melting flakes, at the endless grey.
Patricia sips her cooling chocolate. A thin skin has formed on top. She watches Jacob trace a wonky circle on the steamed-up window. Neither of them looks at Mum. It feels like a silent instruction.
From down the hall, the FAINT, INDECIPHERABLE MURMUR of Dad’s voice from his study. A low rumble.
Jacob turns from the window. His voice is a low whisper.
Mum’s head snaps toward him. Her soft eyes are suddenly sharp. Like broken glass.
CLOSE ON Mum’s knuckles, white where she grips her mug.
A tiny muscle in Mum’s jaw clenches.
Her eyes flick toward the closed study door.
Patricia stirs her lukewarm chocolate. The spoon SCRAPES against the ceramic. The sound is loud in the quiet. "Grown-up things." The words feel like a heavy coat draped over her small shoulders.
The study door opens with a solid THUD.
DAD (30s) enters. Broad-shouldered, hair ruffled, wearing a thick blue jumper. He looks exhausted. He bypasses them completely, heading for the coffee machine.
SOUND of an electric burr grinder WHIRRING to life. Loud. Aggressive. Patricia jumps, spilling a drop of chocolate on the counter.
Dad just GRUNTS. He watches the slow, dark stream of coffee drip into the pot. The bitter smell pushes away the sweet scent of cocoa.
Dad nods, his profile sharp against the window. He doesn’t look at her. Or anyone.
He takes a slow breath. The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating. Patricia looks at Mum. Her face is pale, her lips a thin, bloodless line. She stares at her tea.
Dad’s eyes dart to them, just for a second. They’re dark.
He reaches for his coffee mug. His hand TREMORS, just slightly.
Mum stands, her chair making a soft SCRAPE.
She doesn’t look at Dad. As she passes, she puts a hand on Jacob’s shoulder, a quick squeeze. Her fingers brush through Patricia’s hair, a touch so light it’s almost not there.
Dad stirs his coffee. The spoon CLINK-CLINK-CLINKS against the ceramic. A broken rhythm.
Jacob suddenly CLAPS his hands together. The sound is startlingly loud.
His eyes are desperately bright. He’s trying to fix the quiet.
Mum pauses at the doorway. She gives them a small, tired, fragile smile.
She leaves without a glance back at Dad.
Jacob jumps up, his chair SCRAPING loudly. He grabs Patricia’s hand. It’s warm. Solid.
He pulls her toward the door. As she stumbles after him, Patricia looks back over her shoulder.
ANGLE ON THE KITCHEN. It looks stark, empty.
Dad stands with his back to the room, staring at the coffee machine.
SOUND of the last few drops of coffee. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.
It’s the only sound.
CLOSE ON PATRICIA’S FACE. A cold knot tightens in her stomach. She squeezes Jacob’s hand. He squeezes back. The fortress can’t be built here. Not anymore.
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