Frozen Echoes
A winter reunion among long-separated friends in Central Park, Winnipeg, quickly unravels into a dance of unspoken history, cynical observations, and a peculiar, unsettling glow from the park's depths.
EXT. WINNIPEG PARK - LATE AFTERNOON
A desolate landscape of whites and greys. Skeletal ELM TREES claw at a low, bruised sky. The air is visibly cold.
SOUND: A brittle wind whistles through bare branches.
KAREN (30s), cynical and observant, stands slightly apart from her friends. She hugs a heavy coat to her chest, her gaze fixed on a specific thicket of trees.
The others—MAX (30s), jovially stamping his feet; JOHN (30s), quiet and dependable; and TIM (30s), restless and haunted—are bundled against the chill, their breath pluming.
Deep within the trees Karen watches, a PULSE of unnatural VIOLET LIGHT flashes. Alien. Intrusive. Gone in an instant.
Karen squints. Did she see that? The cold playing tricks.
Tim’s voice cuts through the wind.
TIM
> Still staring into the void, Karen? Some things never change.
She turns. Tim’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his collar turned up against more than the cold. A pang of recognition hits her. She suppresses it.
KAREN
> And you, Tim, still looking for an exit, even when you've just arrived.
His eyes flicker. A direct hit.
Max claps his mittened hands together, a forced, booming sound.
MAX
> Alright, you two, a decade apart and you pick up right where you left off. Wonderful! John, grab us some hot chocolates? My treat, for old times' sake.
JOHN
>>(a small, easy smile)
> Sure thing. Max, you coming to help carry?
John and Max trudge off across the packed snow toward a distant, lonely CONCESSION STAND. Their laughter echoes, thin and hollow.
Silence descends between Karen and Tim. Heavy. Fraught with ten years of unspoken words.
Karen pulls off a glove, digs in her pocket for her phone. An excuse not to look at him.
KAREN
> So, the big return. What brings you back to the frozen north, Tim? Not enough self-flagellation on the West Coast?
A short, humorless laugh escapes him.
TIM
> Always the optimist, Karen. Family matters. You know, the usual obligations one can't outrun forever.
She risks a glance. His eyes seem darker, shadowed.
KAREN
>>(humming noncommittally)
> Obligations. Right.
Her gaze sweeps over the barren park. It feels hollower. Or maybe that's just her.
TIM
> And you? Still here? Still trying to save the world, one cynical observation at a time?
His voice is softer now. A hint of the old tenderness. It makes her guard rise higher.
KAREN
> Someone has to document the slow decay. Besides, Winnipeg's charm is like a fine wine.
>>(she gestures vaguely at the frosted trees)
> It only truly reveals itself to those who stay long enough to appreciate its subtle, often painful, complexities.
He steps closer. The crunch of his boots on the snow is the only sound. A faint warmth radiates from him, a ghost of a touch.
TIM
> Or, to those who are simply too stubborn to leave.
Their eyes meet.
For a fleeting second, the decade between them dissolves. The boy who promised the moon. The girl who believed him.
The illusion shatters. Replaced by the bitter weight of choices made. A dull ache throbs in Karen’s chest.
KAREN
> Stubbornness is a virtue, Tim, when the alternative is regret.
>>(pulling her glove back on)
> Though I'm not sure which one you're currently embodying.
He doesn't reply.
He turns his head. His gaze drifts, landing on the exact spot in the trees where the violet light flickered. He stares. His profile, etched against the gathering gloom, is unreadable.
Karen freezes. He saw it too.
The words catch in her throat.
In the distance, John and Max return, four steaming cups in a cardboard carrier. The fragile tableau is broken.
As they walk, sipping the too-sweet chocolate, Karen keeps glancing back at the trees. A prickle of unease crawls up her spine. The park feels wrong. A repository of forgotten things, now stirring.
The glow wasn't a trick of the light. It was a warning.
CLOSE ON TIM. He takes a sip of chocolate, but his eyes are distant, scanning the same patch of trees. His jaw is tight.
ANGLE ON KAREN, watching him.
A chilling premonition washes over her. It isn't just their old grievances making him so guarded. There is a secret here, buried deeper than the winter snow. And it is about to surface.
A desolate landscape of whites and greys. Skeletal ELM TREES claw at a low, bruised sky. The air is visibly cold.
SOUND: A brittle wind whistles through bare branches.
KAREN (30s), cynical and observant, stands slightly apart from her friends. She hugs a heavy coat to her chest, her gaze fixed on a specific thicket of trees.
The others—MAX (30s), jovially stamping his feet; JOHN (30s), quiet and dependable; and TIM (30s), restless and haunted—are bundled against the chill, their breath pluming.
Deep within the trees Karen watches, a PULSE of unnatural VIOLET LIGHT flashes. Alien. Intrusive. Gone in an instant.
Karen squints. Did she see that? The cold playing tricks.
Tim’s voice cuts through the wind.
TIM
> Still staring into the void, Karen? Some things never change.
She turns. Tim’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his collar turned up against more than the cold. A pang of recognition hits her. She suppresses it.
KAREN
> And you, Tim, still looking for an exit, even when you've just arrived.
His eyes flicker. A direct hit.
Max claps his mittened hands together, a forced, booming sound.
MAX
> Alright, you two, a decade apart and you pick up right where you left off. Wonderful! John, grab us some hot chocolates? My treat, for old times' sake.
JOHN
>>(a small, easy smile)
> Sure thing. Max, you coming to help carry?
John and Max trudge off across the packed snow toward a distant, lonely CONCESSION STAND. Their laughter echoes, thin and hollow.
Silence descends between Karen and Tim. Heavy. Fraught with ten years of unspoken words.
Karen pulls off a glove, digs in her pocket for her phone. An excuse not to look at him.
KAREN
> So, the big return. What brings you back to the frozen north, Tim? Not enough self-flagellation on the West Coast?
A short, humorless laugh escapes him.
TIM
> Always the optimist, Karen. Family matters. You know, the usual obligations one can't outrun forever.
She risks a glance. His eyes seem darker, shadowed.
KAREN
>>(humming noncommittally)
> Obligations. Right.
Her gaze sweeps over the barren park. It feels hollower. Or maybe that's just her.
TIM
> And you? Still here? Still trying to save the world, one cynical observation at a time?
His voice is softer now. A hint of the old tenderness. It makes her guard rise higher.
KAREN
> Someone has to document the slow decay. Besides, Winnipeg's charm is like a fine wine.
>>(she gestures vaguely at the frosted trees)
> It only truly reveals itself to those who stay long enough to appreciate its subtle, often painful, complexities.
He steps closer. The crunch of his boots on the snow is the only sound. A faint warmth radiates from him, a ghost of a touch.
TIM
> Or, to those who are simply too stubborn to leave.
Their eyes meet.
For a fleeting second, the decade between them dissolves. The boy who promised the moon. The girl who believed him.
The illusion shatters. Replaced by the bitter weight of choices made. A dull ache throbs in Karen’s chest.
KAREN
> Stubbornness is a virtue, Tim, when the alternative is regret.
>>(pulling her glove back on)
> Though I'm not sure which one you're currently embodying.
He doesn't reply.
He turns his head. His gaze drifts, landing on the exact spot in the trees where the violet light flickered. He stares. His profile, etched against the gathering gloom, is unreadable.
Karen freezes. He saw it too.
The words catch in her throat.
In the distance, John and Max return, four steaming cups in a cardboard carrier. The fragile tableau is broken.
As they walk, sipping the too-sweet chocolate, Karen keeps glancing back at the trees. A prickle of unease crawls up her spine. The park feels wrong. A repository of forgotten things, now stirring.
The glow wasn't a trick of the light. It was a warning.
CLOSE ON TIM. He takes a sip of chocolate, but his eyes are distant, scanning the same patch of trees. His jaw is tight.
ANGLE ON KAREN, watching him.
A chilling premonition washes over her. It isn't just their old grievances making him so guarded. There is a secret here, buried deeper than the winter snow. And it is about to surface.