Frozen Echoes

Karen squinted, her gaze fixed on the spot where the bizarre light had been. The others, too busy stamping their feet against the cold or pulling scarves higher, hadn't seemed to notice. She hugged her heavy coat tighter, the wool scratchy against her chin, and wondered if the decade-long absence had finally conjured actual apparitions from her past, or if the cold was just playing tricks with her already-skeptical eyes.

"Still staring into the void, Karen? Some things never change," Tim's voice cut through the brittle air, a familiar blend of teasing and accusation. He hadn't changed much either, she noted, with a pang she immediately suppressed. Still carried himself like a man perpetually on the verge of disappearing, hands shoved deep into his pockets, collar high against the wind, or perhaps against scrutiny.

"And you, Tim, still looking for an exit, even when you've just arrived," she retorted, her voice flat. She didn't miss the faint flicker in his eyes, a brief acknowledgment of a shared history they both preferred to pretend never existed.

Max clapped his mittened hands together, oblivious or expertly feigning it. "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, ever the dependable one, nodded, his breath steaming. "Sure thing. Max, you coming to help carry?" John's easy smile was a balm, almost making Karen forget the chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Almost.

As John and Max trudged towards the small concession stand near the pavilion, their laughter echoing hollowly across the snow, the silence between Karen and Tim settled, heavy and fraught. It was the kind of silence that held a thousand unspoken words, accusations, and regrets. Karen pulled off a glove, digging into her pocket for her phone, more to have something to do than out of any real necessity.

"So, the big return," she said, not looking at him. "What brings you back to the frozen north, Tim? Not enough self-flagellation on the West Coast?"

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Always the optimist, Karen. Family matters. You know, the usual obligations one can't outrun forever." His eyes, when she finally risked a glance, were darker than she remembered, almost shadowed, like the elms had been moments ago. She wondered if he'd seen the light, too, and simply chosen not to acknowledge it.

"Obligations. Right." She hummed, scanning the barren landscape. The park felt different, not just colder, but somehow… hollower. Or maybe it was just her. Maybe *she* was hollower.

"And you? Still here? Still trying to save the world, one cynical observation at a time?" Tim's voice was softer now, a hint of the old tenderness that had once disarmed her. It only made her guard rise higher.

"Someone has to document the slow decay," she said, shrugging. "Besides, Winnipeg's charm is like a fine wine. It only truly reveals itself to those who stay long enough to appreciate its subtle, often painful, complexities." She gestured vaguely at the frosted trees, the silent, snow-covered paths, and the distant, muted glow of city lights.

He stepped closer, his boots crunching on the packed snow. She could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, a ghost of a touch. "Or, to those who are simply too stubborn to leave."

Their eyes met then, and for a fleeting moment, the decade dissolved. She saw the boy who'd once promised her the moon, and he, perhaps, saw the girl who'd believed him. But the illusion shattered just as quickly, replaced by the bitter wisdom of years and the weight of choices made, and unmade. Karen felt a familiar ache, a dull throb in her chest that resonated with the icy grip of the wind.

"Stubbornness is a virtue, Tim, when the alternative is regret." She pulled her glove back on, her fingers clumsy with the cold and the sudden rush of memory. "Though I'm not sure which one you're currently embodying."

He didn't reply, just turned his head, staring towards the spot where the violet light had flickered. His profile, etched against the gathering gloom, was unreadable. She wanted to ask if he'd seen it, if he'd felt that strange tremor in the air, but the words caught in her throat. The returning figures of John and Max, cups steaming, broke the fragile tableau. The illusion of a simple reunion, a nostalgic walk in the park, was already crumbling.

As they walked slowly, sipping the too-sweet chocolate, Karen kept glancing back at the trees, a prickle of unease crawling up her spine. The park, usually a place of quiet comfort, now felt like a repository of forgotten things, restless and stirring. She couldn't shake the feeling that the brief, unnatural glow had been more than a trick of light; it was a warning, a subtle unveiling of something ancient and unsettling that had been lying dormant, perhaps waiting for them to return.

Tim was unusually quiet, his eyes often drifting to the same patch of trees, his jaw tight. It wasn't just old grievances that made him so guarded, she realized with a growing sense of dread. There was a secret here, buried deeper than the winter snow, and she had a chilling premonition that it was about to surface, whether any of them were ready or not.