Frozen Ghosts on the Horizon
Jimmy revisits his childhood park in Winnipeg's unforgiving winter, a silent companion his only witness to a flood of imperfect memories, culminating in an unexpected discovery that stirs old feelings.
EXT. HADDINGTON PARK - DAY
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.
JIMMY
> (muttering to himself)
> Yeah, well, someone's gotta do it.
Barnaby gives a soft WHIMPER, pulling gently on the leash.
JIMMY
> Alright, alright. Just taking it all in.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> Taking it all in. Letting the ache settle in your bones. Remembering what it felt like to be ten, thinking frostbite was a badge of honor.
They CRUNCH through the fresh powder. The park is hushed, still. Skeletal trees hold clumps of snow like fragile ornaments.
EXT. PARK PATH - CONTINUOUS
They pass a series of indistinct lumps buried under snowdrifts.
CLOSE ON Jimmy's face. A flicker of memory in his eyes.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> The old concrete picnic tables. Scraped my knee on one trying to outrun Carl Maxwell. Carl. Now he posts thirst traps from Tulum, oblivious to a past of scabby knees and yellow snowballs.
Barnaby sniffs intently at the base of a snow-laden pine.
EXT. RUSTED ARCHWAY - MOMENTS LATER
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.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> Me and Kelsie. A can of warm Coke between us, convinced we were so cool. She moved to Montreal for art school. Haven't seen her in... longer than I want to think about.
He looks from the initials to the empty path ahead.
JIMMY
> (to Barnaby)
> Still there.
Barnaby responds with a gentle tug on the leash, ready to move on. Jimmy manages a small, wry chuckle.
JIMMY
> Right. Priorities.
EXT. FROZEN CREEK - LATER
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.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> We used to try and dam it with rocks. Convinced we could divert it into a grand, miniature lake. It always found a way around our clumsy efforts. A good lesson, I suppose. If you were paying attention. We weren't.
Barnaby snuffles at a snowdrift, a cloud of white puffing up around his nose. A creature of pure winter.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> I envied his single-mindedness. My mind, meanwhile, is a poorly organized archive. Most files labelled 'Regret' or 'What If.'
EXT. SLEDDING HILL - LATER
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.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> This was where we’d spend entire Saturdays. Red-faced and breathless... This was also where I almost told Kelsie something important. Words caught on my tongue like ice...
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.
JIMMY
> No, not a snowball. Just... thinking.
He looks around. The same trees, just older. The same slopes, just more worn. A mirror reflecting a version of himself he barely recognizes.
EXT. EDGE OF THE PARK - LATER
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.
JIMMY
> Hey, what is it? Squirrel?
But this is different. Jimmy's curiosity piques, cutting through his melancholic haze. He walks over.
He kneels, his knees protesting the cold.
JIMMY
> Easy, boy. Let me see.
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.
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.
JIMMY
> (muttering to himself)
> Yeah, well, someone's gotta do it.
Barnaby gives a soft WHIMPER, pulling gently on the leash.
JIMMY
> Alright, alright. Just taking it all in.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> Taking it all in. Letting the ache settle in your bones. Remembering what it felt like to be ten, thinking frostbite was a badge of honor.
They CRUNCH through the fresh powder. The park is hushed, still. Skeletal trees hold clumps of snow like fragile ornaments.
EXT. PARK PATH - CONTINUOUS
They pass a series of indistinct lumps buried under snowdrifts.
CLOSE ON Jimmy's face. A flicker of memory in his eyes.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> The old concrete picnic tables. Scraped my knee on one trying to outrun Carl Maxwell. Carl. Now he posts thirst traps from Tulum, oblivious to a past of scabby knees and yellow snowballs.
Barnaby sniffs intently at the base of a snow-laden pine.
EXT. RUSTED ARCHWAY - MOMENTS LATER
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.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> Me and Kelsie. A can of warm Coke between us, convinced we were so cool. She moved to Montreal for art school. Haven't seen her in... longer than I want to think about.
He looks from the initials to the empty path ahead.
JIMMY
> (to Barnaby)
> Still there.
Barnaby responds with a gentle tug on the leash, ready to move on. Jimmy manages a small, wry chuckle.
JIMMY
> Right. Priorities.
EXT. FROZEN CREEK - LATER
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.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> We used to try and dam it with rocks. Convinced we could divert it into a grand, miniature lake. It always found a way around our clumsy efforts. A good lesson, I suppose. If you were paying attention. We weren't.
Barnaby snuffles at a snowdrift, a cloud of white puffing up around his nose. A creature of pure winter.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> I envied his single-mindedness. My mind, meanwhile, is a poorly organized archive. Most files labelled 'Regret' or 'What If.'
EXT. SLEDDING HILL - LATER
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.
JIMMY (V.O.)
> This was where we’d spend entire Saturdays. Red-faced and breathless... This was also where I almost told Kelsie something important. Words caught on my tongue like ice...
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.
JIMMY
> No, not a snowball. Just... thinking.
He looks around. The same trees, just older. The same slopes, just more worn. A mirror reflecting a version of himself he barely recognizes.
EXT. EDGE OF THE PARK - LATER
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.
JIMMY
> Hey, what is it? Squirrel?
But this is different. Jimmy's curiosity piques, cutting through his melancholic haze. He walks over.
He kneels, his knees protesting the cold.
JIMMY
> Easy, boy. Let me see.
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.