The First Thaw
Inspector Graham confronts a crime scene of unsettling beauty, forcing him to question the nature of change and the strange artistry of human depravity amidst a frigid winter landscape.
**THE FIRST THAW**
**SCENE START**
**EXT. WOODS - DAY**
A vast, oppressive quiet. Snow stretches in every direction, a pristine white blanket sparkling under a flat, colourless sky. The air is sharp, biting.
INSPECTOR GRAHAM (50s, weary, intellectual) stands at the edge of a small clearing. He blows into his cupped hands, the sound a thin RASP against the silence. His face is etched with a familiar fatigue, but his eyes are sharp, analytical.
He watches a FORENSICS TEAM (two people) move with practiced care. Their breath plumes in the frigid air like frantic ghosts.
In the center of the clearing, a BODY. A MAN in faded work clothes, laid out as if for a ceremony.
Graham’s gaze drifts from the body to what surrounds it. Small, brightly coloured CHILDREN'S TOYS, arranged with unsettling precision. A chipped RED TRUCK. A yellow PLASTIC DUCK. A small, worn TEDDY BEAR missing an eye. They look alien against the snow, too clean, too deliberate.
He digs the heels of his boots into the frozen earth. A deep CRUNCH. He’s not looking at a crime. He’s looking at a statement.
SERGEANT MILLER (20s, earnest, his cheeks raw crimson from the cold) approaches, flipping through a small notebook with gloved fingers.
MILLER
> Inspector? Dr. Youngson is on their way. Initial observation, no visible wounds. Looks like… exposure? But the setup…
Miller trails off, gesturing vaguely at the tableau with his pen. He’s out of his depth.
Graham doesn’t look at him. His eyes are fixed on the little red truck, its paint peeling to reveal grey plastic beneath.
GRAHAM
> The setup.
A puff of steam escapes with the words.
GRAHAM (CONT'D)
> Yes, the setup. That’s the real question, isn’t it? Anyone know who our artist is?
MILLER
> Uniforms are canvassing the nearest village. It’s a fair trek, this spot. Not exactly on the main trail. Someone knew this clearing. Put in the leg work.
Miller shoves his hands into his armpits, stamping his feet. Graham’s attention shifts to the teddy bear. One button eye gone. A tuft of stuffing pokes from a seam in its arm.
Graham takes a slow, deliberate step towards the edge of the police tape, careful not to disturb any untouched snow. The quiet is broken only by the distant squawk of a JAY.
He closes his eyes for a beat. Just feeling the cold press against his eyelids.
DR. YOUNGSON (40s, a small, determined woman with a head of bright, messy red hair) arrives, navigating the uneven terrain without breaking stride. She carries her kit with practiced ease, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
She gives Graham and Miller a curt nod, no time for pleasantries, and immediately kneels beside the victim.
DR. YOUNGSON
> (more to herself)
> Right then, what have we here?
Her gloved fingers gently sweep a dusting of snow from the man's exposed hand. The skin beneath is waxy, blue-tinged.
DR. YOUNGSON (CONT'D)
> No obvious signs of trauma. Clothing undisturbed, no tears or defensive marks. Looks like he was placed here post-mortem. Or died very, very peacefully.
She straightens slightly, her gaze falling on the toys. A flicker of something in her eyes—not surprise, but a kind of weary resignation.
DR. YOUNGSON (CONT'D)
> And the ornamentation. How charming.
The words are dry, laced with bitter irony.
MILLER
> We’re thinking exposure, then?
DR. YOUNGSON
> Too early to say. But the signs are there. Hypothermia can be a quiet killer. The lack of struggle… the cold makes you numb, complacent. Sometimes they even start disrobing. Paradoxical undressing.
She pulls out a penlight, checking the victim’s eyes, then gently tries to part his lips.
Graham steps closer, drawn again to the details. The red truck’s wheels are aligned perfectly with a crack in the ice below. The yellow duck faces the man’s head. The teddy bear watches them all with its single, unsettling eye. A story told in frozen silence.
He squats down, ignoring the sharp cold seeping into his trousers. His fingers, stiff in their gloves, brush against the rough bark of a nearby pine. He studies the tiny, resilient flecks of lichen clinging to it.
He looks up. The sky is still a uniform grey, but the wind has shifted. A subtle softening in the air. High above, the snow on the branches shimmers, as if contemplating a slow, reluctant melt. The first thaw.
Dr. Youngson is taking samples now, carefully scraping fragments of ice into sterile bags.
DR. YOUNGSON
> Forensics will have a field day. Pristine scene, strange elements. Lots to unpick. I’ll need to get him back to the lab. Get him warmed up, literally, before I can tell you anything definitive.
Graham nods, pushing himself back to his feet. A dull ache has settled behind his knees. He scans the tree line, the unbroken snow stretching out beyond the clearing. No other footprints. No sign of struggle. Too neat.
A shiver runs through him, deeper than the cold.
He turns his collar up against the wind. His eyes return to the body, the toys, the perfect circle. This isn't an ending. It’s a deliberate crack in the world. A prologue.
**FADE OUT.**
**SCENE END**
**SCENE START**
**EXT. WOODS - DAY**
A vast, oppressive quiet. Snow stretches in every direction, a pristine white blanket sparkling under a flat, colourless sky. The air is sharp, biting.
INSPECTOR GRAHAM (50s, weary, intellectual) stands at the edge of a small clearing. He blows into his cupped hands, the sound a thin RASP against the silence. His face is etched with a familiar fatigue, but his eyes are sharp, analytical.
He watches a FORENSICS TEAM (two people) move with practiced care. Their breath plumes in the frigid air like frantic ghosts.
In the center of the clearing, a BODY. A MAN in faded work clothes, laid out as if for a ceremony.
Graham’s gaze drifts from the body to what surrounds it. Small, brightly coloured CHILDREN'S TOYS, arranged with unsettling precision. A chipped RED TRUCK. A yellow PLASTIC DUCK. A small, worn TEDDY BEAR missing an eye. They look alien against the snow, too clean, too deliberate.
He digs the heels of his boots into the frozen earth. A deep CRUNCH. He’s not looking at a crime. He’s looking at a statement.
SERGEANT MILLER (20s, earnest, his cheeks raw crimson from the cold) approaches, flipping through a small notebook with gloved fingers.
MILLER
> Inspector? Dr. Youngson is on their way. Initial observation, no visible wounds. Looks like… exposure? But the setup…
Miller trails off, gesturing vaguely at the tableau with his pen. He’s out of his depth.
Graham doesn’t look at him. His eyes are fixed on the little red truck, its paint peeling to reveal grey plastic beneath.
GRAHAM
> The setup.
A puff of steam escapes with the words.
GRAHAM (CONT'D)
> Yes, the setup. That’s the real question, isn’t it? Anyone know who our artist is?
MILLER
> Uniforms are canvassing the nearest village. It’s a fair trek, this spot. Not exactly on the main trail. Someone knew this clearing. Put in the leg work.
Miller shoves his hands into his armpits, stamping his feet. Graham’s attention shifts to the teddy bear. One button eye gone. A tuft of stuffing pokes from a seam in its arm.
Graham takes a slow, deliberate step towards the edge of the police tape, careful not to disturb any untouched snow. The quiet is broken only by the distant squawk of a JAY.
He closes his eyes for a beat. Just feeling the cold press against his eyelids.
DR. YOUNGSON (40s, a small, determined woman with a head of bright, messy red hair) arrives, navigating the uneven terrain without breaking stride. She carries her kit with practiced ease, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
She gives Graham and Miller a curt nod, no time for pleasantries, and immediately kneels beside the victim.
DR. YOUNGSON
> (more to herself)
> Right then, what have we here?
Her gloved fingers gently sweep a dusting of snow from the man's exposed hand. The skin beneath is waxy, blue-tinged.
DR. YOUNGSON (CONT'D)
> No obvious signs of trauma. Clothing undisturbed, no tears or defensive marks. Looks like he was placed here post-mortem. Or died very, very peacefully.
She straightens slightly, her gaze falling on the toys. A flicker of something in her eyes—not surprise, but a kind of weary resignation.
DR. YOUNGSON (CONT'D)
> And the ornamentation. How charming.
The words are dry, laced with bitter irony.
MILLER
> We’re thinking exposure, then?
DR. YOUNGSON
> Too early to say. But the signs are there. Hypothermia can be a quiet killer. The lack of struggle… the cold makes you numb, complacent. Sometimes they even start disrobing. Paradoxical undressing.
She pulls out a penlight, checking the victim’s eyes, then gently tries to part his lips.
Graham steps closer, drawn again to the details. The red truck’s wheels are aligned perfectly with a crack in the ice below. The yellow duck faces the man’s head. The teddy bear watches them all with its single, unsettling eye. A story told in frozen silence.
He squats down, ignoring the sharp cold seeping into his trousers. His fingers, stiff in their gloves, brush against the rough bark of a nearby pine. He studies the tiny, resilient flecks of lichen clinging to it.
He looks up. The sky is still a uniform grey, but the wind has shifted. A subtle softening in the air. High above, the snow on the branches shimmers, as if contemplating a slow, reluctant melt. The first thaw.
Dr. Youngson is taking samples now, carefully scraping fragments of ice into sterile bags.
DR. YOUNGSON
> Forensics will have a field day. Pristine scene, strange elements. Lots to unpick. I’ll need to get him back to the lab. Get him warmed up, literally, before I can tell you anything definitive.
Graham nods, pushing himself back to his feet. A dull ache has settled behind his knees. He scans the tree line, the unbroken snow stretching out beyond the clearing. No other footprints. No sign of struggle. Too neat.
A shiver runs through him, deeper than the cold.
He turns his collar up against the wind. His eyes return to the body, the toys, the perfect circle. This isn't an ending. It’s a deliberate crack in the world. A prologue.
**FADE OUT.**
**SCENE END**