A Chill in the Timberline

Years after a shared trauma, Rory and Andy reconnect amidst a harsh winter, where the discovery of a charred relic dredges up old ghosts and unearths a unsettling mystery that threatens to unravel their fractured bond.

The jeep’s engine groaned, a raw, mechanical complaint against the sheer, unrelenting cold. Rory gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, his breath fogging the windscreen in a steady rhythm. The track, barely more than a scar across the snow-dusted landscape, ended abruptly at a cluster of three-quarter buried logs that served as a fence line. He cut the engine. The sudden quiet was enormous, a physical weight pressing in from the vast, frozen wilderness. Only the whine of the cooling metal and the whip of the wind through sparse, starved pines broke the stillness. He hadn't heard quiet like this since... well, since before.

He pushed the door open, the hinge screaming in protest, a sound swallowed instantly by the expanse. Cold bit into his lungs, a sharp, visceral shock. It smelled of wet pine needles, something metallic he couldn’t place, and the faint, sweet decay of winter earth beneath the snow. The cabin, a squat rectangle of rough-hewn timber, sat hunched against the mountain’s flank, a thin plume of grey smoke struggling from its chimney. It looked smaller than he remembered, more defiant in its solitude. Rory pulled his beanie lower, adjusted the collar of his heavy coat, and started towards the porch, each step a crunching protest on the hard-packed snow.

The door opened before he reached it. Andy stood silhouetted against the dim interior, a shadow carved from the cabin’s gloom. He hadn’t changed much, not on the surface. Still rangy, shoulders slightly slumped, but something else had settled over him, something hard and brittle. His eyes, usually quick, now held a careful, distant sheen, like ice forming on water. Rory felt a jolt, an unwelcome memory of a different Andy, a livelier one. That Andy felt like another lifetime’s bad dream.

“Took you long enough,” Andy said, his voice flat, devoid of real welcome or anger. Just fact. It scraped. Rory kicked at a patch of frozen mud on the porch, a small, pointless act. He should feel… something. Relief? Annoyance? All he felt was the deep, seeping cold in his boots.

“Roads were bad,” Rory managed, the words feeling clumsy, inadequate. He tried a smile, a brief, fragile thing that didn't reach his eyes. Andy just stared, unblinking, the corner of his mouth twitching, but not quite a smile. The silence stretched, cold and thin, between them. It was a language they both understood, a legacy of things unsaid. Rory shifted his weight, the heavy pack on his shoulders digging in.

Andy finally stepped back, the door creaking wider. “Come in. You’ll freeze out there.” He didn’t offer to help with the bag. Rory didn’t expect him to. Inside, the cabin was warmer, but not by much. A single oil lamp cast a sickly yellow glow, pushing back the deeper shadows but not conquering them. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, old coffee, and something else indefinable – the scent of disuse, of too many lonely winters.

He dropped his pack with a thud that echoed disproportionately in the small space. Andy had already turned away, moving towards the stove, stirring something in a cast-iron pot. Rory watched him, the careful, deliberate movements, the way his shoulders tensed. This wasn’t the same Andy who used to laugh until he doubled over, whose enthusiasm had once been a kind of force of nature. This Andy was a structure of careful defences, built up against the world, and against Rory, too, maybe.

---

### The Bone-White Past

Later, after a mug of black coffee that tasted like bitter earth, Andy gestured vaguely towards the window. “There’s an old place. South-east ridge. Thought you might want to see it.” He didn’t meet Rory’s eyes. He never did, not really. Always skirting the direct gaze, like a hunted animal. Rory's gut twisted. He knew what ‘the old place’ was. He’d tried to forget it.

The trek was brutal. The snow was deeper here, unbroken, each step a plunge. The wind, relentless, tore at their faces, leaving skin raw and tingling. Andy walked ahead, a gaunt, determined silhouette, his back a wall Rory couldn't breach. The silence between them was heavier now, charged with the unacknowledged purpose of their journey. Rory’s mind snagged on a stray thought: why now? After all this time. Why drag him back to that place?

They crested a rise. Below, nestled in a small, wind-blasted hollow, was what remained. Not a home, not anymore. Just a skeleton of splintered wood and a collapsed, snow-laden roof, barely distinguishable from the surrounding drifts. The original fire had taken everything, leaving only this charred, desolate monument. Rory felt his chest tighten, a familiar, cold vise. The air here was different, thinner, imbued with a permanent chill that had nothing to do with the weather. It hummed with the ghosts of screams he hadn't actually heard, but felt deep in his bones.

“Come on,” Andy muttered, his voice raspy, a low growl against the wind. He started down the slope, sliding more than walking. Rory followed, his eyes scanning the ruin. It was worse up close. Twisted beams, blackened stones, the faint, persistent smell of ash that seemed to cling to the frozen air. A surreal landscape of destruction, preserved by the relentless winter.

Andy moved through the rubble with a strange familiarity, kicking at chunks of frozen earth, his gaze sweeping over the scene like he was looking for something specific, or perhaps just confirming its continued existence. Rory just stood, hands shoved deep in his pockets, feeling the familiar prickle of guilt and something darker, more insidious. He watched Andy, watched the way his jaw worked, the muscle twitching. What was he looking for? What did he hope to find?

Then Andy stopped. He was crouched by a partially buried section of what might have once been a porch step. His hand, gloved and clumsy, dug into the packed snow. Rory felt a cold dread unfurl in his stomach. He knew, somehow, what Andy was about to uncover. He just didn't want it to be true. He didn't want to see it again. He held his breath, the wind momentarily knocked from his lungs.

---

### The Splintered Horse

Andy pulled it free. A child’s wooden rocking horse. Or what was left of one. Its head was missing, the carved mane a jagged, blackened mess. One leg was snapped clean off, a raw, splintered wound. The wood, once painted, was now scorched and warped, its surface rough and pitted like the skin of an old wound. It was small, delicate, but heavy with unspoken history. The sight of it sent a jolt through Rory, a visceral memory, sharp and unwelcome. He remembered that horse. He remembered who it belonged to. He remembered the laugh of a child, long silenced.

Andy held it gingerly, almost reverently, the charred wood a stark contrast against his heavy glove. He didn’t look at Rory. He just stared at the broken toy, his face a mask of something Rory couldn't quite decipher—grief? Anger? A detached sort of horror? Rory felt his own throat constrict. The air felt thin, sharp. The sound of the wind suddenly seemed to intensify, a mournful wail around them.

“Still here,” Andy said, his voice barely a breath, lost almost immediately to the wind. He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to. The horse was enough. The horse was everything. Rory remembered the small, slight boy who had ridden it, hair like corn silk, eyes wide and curious. And then, he remembered the fire. The frantic search. The empty space left behind.

“Why now?” Rory asked, the words feeling like shards of ice in his own mouth. His voice cracked, surprising him. He hated the vulnerability. Andy stiffened, his shoulders hunching. He slowly turned, the wooden horse still clutched in his hand, a macabre offering. His eyes finally met Rory’s, and for a fleeting moment, Rory saw something raw and wounded, a flicker of the boy he once knew, before it was slammed shut, replaced by the familiar, cold barrier.

“It wasn’t just the fire,” Andy said, his gaze hard, unwavering now. The words were clipped, each syllable a deliberate effort. His breath plumed white in the frigid air. “You know that. You saw… things.” He didn't accuse, not really, but the implication hung heavy, a leaden weight in the air between them. Rory felt his blood run cold. Saw things? He had seen the smoke, yes, the frantic chaos. But Andy always seemed to imply something more, something Rory had suppressed, shoved deep into the dark corners of his memory.

Rory shook his head, a small, desperate movement. “I don’t know what you mean. It was an accident. The stove…” His voice trailed off. He felt a phantom warmth on his cheek, the terrifying glow of flames against the night sky, a memory he had meticulously buried. Andy let out a short, cynical laugh, a harsh, humourless sound that scraped against Rory’s ears. It was the sound of a wound festering, refusing to heal.

“Accident,” Andy repeated, the word twisted, heavy with contempt. He looked away again, towards the charred remains of the cabin, then back to the broken horse in his hand. “He was gone before the smoke even cleared. They just said… he’d wandered off in the chaos. Vanished.” He held the horse out, a strange, accusatory gesture. “This was under his bed. Always. How did it end up outside? Half-burnt?” Rory stared at the horse, then at Andy's face, a sudden, chilling question forming in his mind, sharp as a newly honed blade.

---

### The Unblinking Eye

They walked back in a silence that was colder, heavier than before. The wooden horse, wrapped in a scrap of canvas Andy had produced from his pocket, was tucked inside his coat. Rory kept glancing at Andy, trying to read something in his rigid posture, the tight set of his jaw. He felt watched, not just by Andy, but by the barren landscape itself, by the skeletal trees, by the unblinking eye of the winter sky. The world felt like it was holding its breath, waiting.

Back at the cabin, Andy went straight for the small, scarred kitchen table. He carefully unwrapped the horse, setting it down with a soft thud that reverberated in the quiet room. The oil lamp cast long, dancing shadows, making the charred toy seem to writhe, alive with its grim history. Rory hovered, unwilling to sit, unwilling to leave. The air was thick with tension, with the unspoken accusation that had finally surfaced, a poison that had been brewing between them for years.

“Why did you bring me here, Andy?” Rory asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, but it cut through the silence like ice. He braced himself for a dismissive answer, another deflection. Andy didn’t look up immediately. He traced a finger along the splintered side of the horse, his brow furrowed in a deep, complicated frown. When he finally spoke, his voice was still low, but edged with a chilling certainty.

“Because you were there, Rory. You were the last one. Before the flames. Before… he was gone.” He finally met Rory's gaze, and there it was, stark and terrifying: the suspicion, unvarnished, shining in his eyes. Rory felt a cold, inexplicable terror bloom in his chest, a sensation akin to falling into an unseen crevasse. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The cabin’s wooden walls seemed to press in, the shadows deepening, swallowing the air.

A sharp rap on the window startled them both, a sudden, jarring sound in the heavy quiet. Rory jumped, his heart lurching. Andy froze, his hand still resting on the burnt wooden horse. They both turned, eyes fixed on the pane. For a fleeting second, a distorted face pressed against the glass, framed by darkness, then it was gone, leaving only the reflection of their own shocked faces staring back. The wind outside seemed to pick up, a sudden gust rattling the windowpane with frantic, clawing fingers. Rory’s mouth felt like sandpaper. He could still see the ghost of the face, a pale blur, just at the edge of his vision. Who? Or what? He glanced at Andy, whose face had gone ashen, his knuckles white against the dark wood of the table. The mystery was no longer a ghost of the past. It was here, now, scratching at the window.

Rory stared at Andy, his mind reeling. The implications of Andy’s words, coupled with the unnerving apparition, felt like a deliberate blow to his gut. He didn't know if this was a confession, an accusation, or a desperate plea, but the fragile ice between them had finally splintered. The cold dread in his stomach intensified, a sick, swirling vortex. He wanted to run, to leave the cabin, to flee the overwhelming presence of unspoken horrors, but his feet felt rooted to the creaking floorboards. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that Andy wasn't going to let him go, not until he found the answers he so desperately sought. And Rory wasn’t sure he wanted to hear them.