The July Frost
A freak summer cold front descends on Winnipeg, freezing time and tempers in the Exchange District. When a frantic stranger leaves something behind in Bernie’s shop, the unseasonable chill turns into a quiet hunt for a missing piece of someone's life.
INT. THE RETRIEVAL - DAY
A curated explosion of second-hand treasures. Mid-century lamps with frayed cords, velvet armchairs that have seen better decades, and shelves of books that lean precariously.
Through a large plate glass window, the sky is the color of a bruised plum. Sleet comes down in sheets, rattling against the glass. The wind SHRIEKS, a thin, metallic sound.
BERNIE (40s, pragmatic, wearing three mismatched layers) shoves her shoulder against the heavy front door, fighting a gust of wind. She wrestles it shut. The door SLAMS, rattling a stack of paperbacks on a display table. She turns the deadbolt. LOCKS.
She leans her forehead against the cool wood, breathing in the smell of damp wool and old paper.
A calendar on the wall shows a picture of a sunflower. The month is JULY.
Bernie rubs her arms, shivering.
BERNIE
> (to herself)
> This is... ridiculous.
From the back of the shop, an electric kettle CLICKS OFF.
Bernie pushes away from the door and navigates the maze of furniture toward a small counter in the back.
SAM (30s, cynical, sharp) is already there, gripping a ceramic mug with both hands. She stares out the window at the deluge.
SAM
> My car isn't going to start. I can feel it. The starter is patchy when it rains, and this isn't even rain. This is... aggressive water. It’s ice water.
Bernie grabs her own mug, pours boiling water from the kettle. A cloud of steam rises, smelling of Earl Grey.
BERNIE
> It’ll start. It’s just a cold front. A very, very aggressive cold front.
SAM
> It’s five degrees, Bernie. My tomato plants are going to die. I put so much work into them.
> (sips her tea, grimaces)
> Everything is dying today. My hope included.
Bernie leans against the counter, wrapping her fingers around the hot ceramic.
BERNIE
> Don't be dramatic. It's just weather. It'll be thirty degrees again by Friday and we'll be complaining about the humidity.
SAM
> I prefer the mosquitoes. At least mosquitoes make sense. This? This feels like the universe is glitching.
The bell above the door JINGLES violently. Both women jump.
The door bursts open, carried by the wind, and a man stumbles inside. This is BEN (late 20s), looking like a shipwreck survivor. Soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead, a beige trench coat dark with saturation.
He spins, wrestling the door shut against the wind. His boots SQUEAK loudly on the hardwood floor. He finally gets the latch to click and turns to face them, chest heaving. His eyes are tired, frantic.
BEN
> I... sorry. I didn't mean to slam it. The wind.
BERNIE
> It's okay. It's nasty out there. Do you need a minute?
Ben’s gaze darts around the shop. He isn't browsing. He's hunting.
BEN
> I was here. Two days ago. Tuesday. I was here Tuesday.
BERNIE
> Okay. Did you lose something?
BEN
> I sat...
> (points a trembling finger)
> There.
He indicates a reading nook in the back corner, where a tufted green velvet chair sits under a reading lamp.
BEN
> I had a bag. A small canvas bag.
Sam turns on her stool, watching him.
SAM
> We haven't seen a bag. Bernie cleans up every night. If it was here, she'd have it behind the counter.
Ben’s face collapses. His shoulders slump. He runs a hand through his wet hair, sending droplets flying.
BEN
> (a whisper)
> It’s not here? Are you sure? Can you check? Please. It’s... it’s everything. I can’t... if I lost it...
Bernie’s expression softens. She moves to a cupboard behind the register. She makes a show of rummaging through a scarf, a single mitten, a broken umbrella.
BERNIE
> I'm sorry. Nothing like a canvas bag.
Ben stares at the floor, utterly defeated.
BEN
> Okay. Okay. Thanks. Sorry to bother you.
He turns and walks slowly back to the door. The frantic energy is gone, replaced by a heavy, wet sadness. He opens the door, letting the cold wind blast back in, and steps out. The door CLICKS shut.
A beat of silence.
SAM
> Well. That was depressing.
BERNIE
> Yeah. He looked... really bad, Sam. Like, 'end of the rope' bad.
SAM
> Maybe it was money. Or drugs. You never know downtown.
BERNIE
> No. He didn't look like he was looking for a fix. He looked like he was looking for a lifeline.
Bernie comes out from behind the counter. She walks over to the green velvet chair. She checks the seat cushion. Nothing. She checks the floor around it.
BERNIE
> (muttering)
> He said Tuesday... I moved the chair Tuesday to vacuum.
She grips the arm of the chair and tips it forward.
Wedged between the wooden leg and the fraying fabric of the underside is a small, thick, cream-colored envelope. It's sealed with red wax, cracked down the middle.
BERNIE
> Sam. Look at this.
Sam hops off her stool and walks over.
SAM
> What is it? Money?
Bernie pulls the envelope free. It feels heavy. There's no address, just a name written in shaky blue ink: *To Leo*.
BERNIE
> It's not a bag. But he was frantic. Maybe this was inside it.
SAM
> Open it. We need to know who he is if we're going to find him.
BERNIE
> It's sealed. It feels private.
SAM
> He just walked out into a hailstorm looking like his life was over. Privacy is a luxury. Open it.
Bernie hesitates, then slides her thumb under the flap. The wax crumbles. She pulls out the contents.
It's a photograph and a key.
The photograph is an old polaroid. It shows a small, run-down cottage. On the sagging porch, a WOMAN is laughing, holding up a giant, ugly fish. Written on the white border: *The dream. 1998.*
The key is modern, silver, with a bright yellow plastic tag. On the tag: *Unit 402. The Albert.*
SAM
> The Albert? That’s the new subsidized housing block over on Princess Street, isn't it?
Bernie nods slowly, the pieces clicking into place.
BERNIE
> He wasn't looking for a bag of money. He was looking for his home. Or a home for someone.
> (looks to the window)
> He’s probably walking around in this, thinking he lost the key. Thinking he lost the chance.
SAM
> He can't have got far. He was on foot. And he looked exhausted.
Sam grabs her coat from a rack.
BERNIE
> You want to go out in this? You just said your hope was dying.
SAM
> My tomato plants are dying. But if that guy loses that key, he's going to have a worse day than my tomatoes. Come on. I’ll drive. If the car starts.
Bernie grabs her own heavy wool coat, flips the sign on the door to *Back in 15 Minutes*, and tucks the envelope safely into her inside pocket.
EXT. ARTHUR STREET - DAY
The cold is shocking, wet and seeping. The wind whips hair across their faces. They run to Sam’s battered Honda Civic.
INT. SAM'S CAR - DAY
Sam jams the key in the ignition and turns it. The engine WHINES, SPUTTERS, CHOKES... and then ROARS to life.
SAM
> Yes! Thank you, you beautiful piece of junk!
She throws the car in gear.
EXT. EXCHANGE DISTRICT STREETS - DAY
The Civic rolls slowly down the street. The wipers slap frantically against the windshield, fighting a losing battle. The city is greyscale, the beautiful brick buildings dark and sodden.
INT. SAM'S CAR - MOVING - DAY
SAM
> Which way?
BERNIE
> He turned left. Towards the square. If he’s heading to Princess Street, he might be cutting through Old Market Square.
They turn a corner. The park is empty.
SAM
> I don't see him.
BERNIE
> Slow down.
> (scanning the sidewalks)
> There. By the bus stop.
Through the sleet, a figure is visible, sitting on a metal bench, hunched over, head in hands. The beige trench coat is unmistakable.
Sam pulls the car over, splashing through a massive puddle.
EXT. BUS STOP - DAY
Bernie has the door open before the car fully stops. She jumps out into the storm.
BERNIE
> (shouting over the wind)
> Hey! You!
Ben looks up slowly. His face is pale, lips slightly blue. Confusion in his unfocused eyes.
BERNIE
> You left something!
She reaches into her coat and pulls out the cream-colored envelope, holding it up.
Recognition breaks through the misery on his face. He scrambles up from the bench, slips slightly on the wet concrete, and stumbles toward them.
BEN
> (voice wrecked)
> You found it? I thought... I thought I dropped it in the street.
BERNIE
> It was under the chair. It got stuck.
She hands it to him. He takes it with both hands, clutching it to his chest.
BEN
> Thank you. You don't understand. This is... my brother. Leo. He gets out today. Rehab. Six months.
> (shivers violently)
> I promised him I'd have the place ready. The key. If I lost the key, he’d think I bailed on him. He’d think nobody was waiting.
BERNIE
> He's not going to think that. You got the key. You're going to be there.
SAM
> (from the car)
> Get in! We'll drive you. You're going to get hypothermia.
INT. SAM'S CAR - MOVING - DAY
Ben sits in the back, dripping on the upholstery, clutching the envelope. The car smells of wet dog and heater dust, but it's warm. He talks fast, an adrenaline dump.
BEN
> The fish in the photo, that was my mom’s prize catch. Good luck in our family. The apartment, it’s small, but it has a window... I just thought the universe was telling me it wasn't going to work out.
BERNIE
> It feels like that sometimes. Especially on a day like this. The weather gets in your head. Makes you think everything is cold.
BEN
> (softly)
> Yeah. But then strangers drive you home.
EXT. THE ALBERT APARTMENTS - DAY
They pull up in front of a sturdy brick building. Ben pauses with one foot on the curb.
BEN
> I can't pay you. I mean, I could buy you a coffee?
SAM
> On the house. Just... make it work.
BEN
> I will.
> (he smiles, hopeful)
> Thanks. Seriously.
He slams the door and runs toward the building entrance. He fumbles with the yellow-tagged key, gets the door open, turns back to wave once, and disappears inside.
Sam puts the car in gear.
SAM
> Well. That was better than staring at the rain.
BERNIE
> Yeah. It was.
They drive back. The streetlights flicker on, struggling against the gloom.
INT. THE RETRIEVAL - LATER
The shop is quiet. Bernie locks the door behind them, flipping the sign back to *Open*.
BERNIE
> Tea?
SAM
> Coffee. And maybe a cookie if you have those stale ones left.
Bernie goes to the back and fills the kettle. She looks at the green velvet chair, running her hand over the rough, worn fabric.
The wind RATTLES the glass again.
Then, the kettle begins to WHISTLE—a rising, cheerful shriek that cuts through the silence.
Bernie pours the water. Steam rises up, twisting in the air like a ghost, before vanishing.
She brings two mugs to the counter. A small, warm sanctuary against the storm.
FADE OUT.
A curated explosion of second-hand treasures. Mid-century lamps with frayed cords, velvet armchairs that have seen better decades, and shelves of books that lean precariously.
Through a large plate glass window, the sky is the color of a bruised plum. Sleet comes down in sheets, rattling against the glass. The wind SHRIEKS, a thin, metallic sound.
BERNIE (40s, pragmatic, wearing three mismatched layers) shoves her shoulder against the heavy front door, fighting a gust of wind. She wrestles it shut. The door SLAMS, rattling a stack of paperbacks on a display table. She turns the deadbolt. LOCKS.
She leans her forehead against the cool wood, breathing in the smell of damp wool and old paper.
A calendar on the wall shows a picture of a sunflower. The month is JULY.
Bernie rubs her arms, shivering.
BERNIE
> (to herself)
> This is... ridiculous.
From the back of the shop, an electric kettle CLICKS OFF.
Bernie pushes away from the door and navigates the maze of furniture toward a small counter in the back.
SAM (30s, cynical, sharp) is already there, gripping a ceramic mug with both hands. She stares out the window at the deluge.
SAM
> My car isn't going to start. I can feel it. The starter is patchy when it rains, and this isn't even rain. This is... aggressive water. It’s ice water.
Bernie grabs her own mug, pours boiling water from the kettle. A cloud of steam rises, smelling of Earl Grey.
BERNIE
> It’ll start. It’s just a cold front. A very, very aggressive cold front.
SAM
> It’s five degrees, Bernie. My tomato plants are going to die. I put so much work into them.
> (sips her tea, grimaces)
> Everything is dying today. My hope included.
Bernie leans against the counter, wrapping her fingers around the hot ceramic.
BERNIE
> Don't be dramatic. It's just weather. It'll be thirty degrees again by Friday and we'll be complaining about the humidity.
SAM
> I prefer the mosquitoes. At least mosquitoes make sense. This? This feels like the universe is glitching.
The bell above the door JINGLES violently. Both women jump.
The door bursts open, carried by the wind, and a man stumbles inside. This is BEN (late 20s), looking like a shipwreck survivor. Soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead, a beige trench coat dark with saturation.
He spins, wrestling the door shut against the wind. His boots SQUEAK loudly on the hardwood floor. He finally gets the latch to click and turns to face them, chest heaving. His eyes are tired, frantic.
BEN
> I... sorry. I didn't mean to slam it. The wind.
BERNIE
> It's okay. It's nasty out there. Do you need a minute?
Ben’s gaze darts around the shop. He isn't browsing. He's hunting.
BEN
> I was here. Two days ago. Tuesday. I was here Tuesday.
BERNIE
> Okay. Did you lose something?
BEN
> I sat...
> (points a trembling finger)
> There.
He indicates a reading nook in the back corner, where a tufted green velvet chair sits under a reading lamp.
BEN
> I had a bag. A small canvas bag.
Sam turns on her stool, watching him.
SAM
> We haven't seen a bag. Bernie cleans up every night. If it was here, she'd have it behind the counter.
Ben’s face collapses. His shoulders slump. He runs a hand through his wet hair, sending droplets flying.
BEN
> (a whisper)
> It’s not here? Are you sure? Can you check? Please. It’s... it’s everything. I can’t... if I lost it...
Bernie’s expression softens. She moves to a cupboard behind the register. She makes a show of rummaging through a scarf, a single mitten, a broken umbrella.
BERNIE
> I'm sorry. Nothing like a canvas bag.
Ben stares at the floor, utterly defeated.
BEN
> Okay. Okay. Thanks. Sorry to bother you.
He turns and walks slowly back to the door. The frantic energy is gone, replaced by a heavy, wet sadness. He opens the door, letting the cold wind blast back in, and steps out. The door CLICKS shut.
A beat of silence.
SAM
> Well. That was depressing.
BERNIE
> Yeah. He looked... really bad, Sam. Like, 'end of the rope' bad.
SAM
> Maybe it was money. Or drugs. You never know downtown.
BERNIE
> No. He didn't look like he was looking for a fix. He looked like he was looking for a lifeline.
Bernie comes out from behind the counter. She walks over to the green velvet chair. She checks the seat cushion. Nothing. She checks the floor around it.
BERNIE
> (muttering)
> He said Tuesday... I moved the chair Tuesday to vacuum.
She grips the arm of the chair and tips it forward.
Wedged between the wooden leg and the fraying fabric of the underside is a small, thick, cream-colored envelope. It's sealed with red wax, cracked down the middle.
BERNIE
> Sam. Look at this.
Sam hops off her stool and walks over.
SAM
> What is it? Money?
Bernie pulls the envelope free. It feels heavy. There's no address, just a name written in shaky blue ink: *To Leo*.
BERNIE
> It's not a bag. But he was frantic. Maybe this was inside it.
SAM
> Open it. We need to know who he is if we're going to find him.
BERNIE
> It's sealed. It feels private.
SAM
> He just walked out into a hailstorm looking like his life was over. Privacy is a luxury. Open it.
Bernie hesitates, then slides her thumb under the flap. The wax crumbles. She pulls out the contents.
It's a photograph and a key.
The photograph is an old polaroid. It shows a small, run-down cottage. On the sagging porch, a WOMAN is laughing, holding up a giant, ugly fish. Written on the white border: *The dream. 1998.*
The key is modern, silver, with a bright yellow plastic tag. On the tag: *Unit 402. The Albert.*
SAM
> The Albert? That’s the new subsidized housing block over on Princess Street, isn't it?
Bernie nods slowly, the pieces clicking into place.
BERNIE
> He wasn't looking for a bag of money. He was looking for his home. Or a home for someone.
> (looks to the window)
> He’s probably walking around in this, thinking he lost the key. Thinking he lost the chance.
SAM
> He can't have got far. He was on foot. And he looked exhausted.
Sam grabs her coat from a rack.
BERNIE
> You want to go out in this? You just said your hope was dying.
SAM
> My tomato plants are dying. But if that guy loses that key, he's going to have a worse day than my tomatoes. Come on. I’ll drive. If the car starts.
Bernie grabs her own heavy wool coat, flips the sign on the door to *Back in 15 Minutes*, and tucks the envelope safely into her inside pocket.
EXT. ARTHUR STREET - DAY
The cold is shocking, wet and seeping. The wind whips hair across their faces. They run to Sam’s battered Honda Civic.
INT. SAM'S CAR - DAY
Sam jams the key in the ignition and turns it. The engine WHINES, SPUTTERS, CHOKES... and then ROARS to life.
SAM
> Yes! Thank you, you beautiful piece of junk!
She throws the car in gear.
EXT. EXCHANGE DISTRICT STREETS - DAY
The Civic rolls slowly down the street. The wipers slap frantically against the windshield, fighting a losing battle. The city is greyscale, the beautiful brick buildings dark and sodden.
INT. SAM'S CAR - MOVING - DAY
SAM
> Which way?
BERNIE
> He turned left. Towards the square. If he’s heading to Princess Street, he might be cutting through Old Market Square.
They turn a corner. The park is empty.
SAM
> I don't see him.
BERNIE
> Slow down.
> (scanning the sidewalks)
> There. By the bus stop.
Through the sleet, a figure is visible, sitting on a metal bench, hunched over, head in hands. The beige trench coat is unmistakable.
Sam pulls the car over, splashing through a massive puddle.
EXT. BUS STOP - DAY
Bernie has the door open before the car fully stops. She jumps out into the storm.
BERNIE
> (shouting over the wind)
> Hey! You!
Ben looks up slowly. His face is pale, lips slightly blue. Confusion in his unfocused eyes.
BERNIE
> You left something!
She reaches into her coat and pulls out the cream-colored envelope, holding it up.
Recognition breaks through the misery on his face. He scrambles up from the bench, slips slightly on the wet concrete, and stumbles toward them.
BEN
> (voice wrecked)
> You found it? I thought... I thought I dropped it in the street.
BERNIE
> It was under the chair. It got stuck.
She hands it to him. He takes it with both hands, clutching it to his chest.
BEN
> Thank you. You don't understand. This is... my brother. Leo. He gets out today. Rehab. Six months.
> (shivers violently)
> I promised him I'd have the place ready. The key. If I lost the key, he’d think I bailed on him. He’d think nobody was waiting.
BERNIE
> He's not going to think that. You got the key. You're going to be there.
SAM
> (from the car)
> Get in! We'll drive you. You're going to get hypothermia.
INT. SAM'S CAR - MOVING - DAY
Ben sits in the back, dripping on the upholstery, clutching the envelope. The car smells of wet dog and heater dust, but it's warm. He talks fast, an adrenaline dump.
BEN
> The fish in the photo, that was my mom’s prize catch. Good luck in our family. The apartment, it’s small, but it has a window... I just thought the universe was telling me it wasn't going to work out.
BERNIE
> It feels like that sometimes. Especially on a day like this. The weather gets in your head. Makes you think everything is cold.
BEN
> (softly)
> Yeah. But then strangers drive you home.
EXT. THE ALBERT APARTMENTS - DAY
They pull up in front of a sturdy brick building. Ben pauses with one foot on the curb.
BEN
> I can't pay you. I mean, I could buy you a coffee?
SAM
> On the house. Just... make it work.
BEN
> I will.
> (he smiles, hopeful)
> Thanks. Seriously.
He slams the door and runs toward the building entrance. He fumbles with the yellow-tagged key, gets the door open, turns back to wave once, and disappears inside.
Sam puts the car in gear.
SAM
> Well. That was better than staring at the rain.
BERNIE
> Yeah. It was.
They drive back. The streetlights flicker on, struggling against the gloom.
INT. THE RETRIEVAL - LATER
The shop is quiet. Bernie locks the door behind them, flipping the sign back to *Open*.
BERNIE
> Tea?
SAM
> Coffee. And maybe a cookie if you have those stale ones left.
Bernie goes to the back and fills the kettle. She looks at the green velvet chair, running her hand over the rough, worn fabric.
The wind RATTLES the glass again.
Then, the kettle begins to WHISTLE—a rising, cheerful shriek that cuts through the silence.
Bernie pours the water. Steam rises up, twisting in the air like a ghost, before vanishing.
She brings two mugs to the counter. A small, warm sanctuary against the storm.
FADE OUT.