A dying fire burned in the hearth of the snow-covered cabin in the woods.
It gasped with each flicker, the dwindling twigs crackled faintly, each more feeble than the last. Weak as it was, the fire provided enough light for the two inhabitants of the cabin. A clock hung on the wall above the hearth, its hands frozen in place and time.
“You’ll have to leave eventually, John.” Murmured the taller one, he had close cropped black hair and a kind face, with lines tracing the ghosts of smiles past. He looked young, but his voice didn’t match his looks, you couldn’t tell if it echoed off of the walls, or if it came from them. His words hung in the air, like a promise made long ago. He reclined in an armchair facing the other person, a nondescript cane leaning against the side of the chair.
John had his eyes fixated on the struggling flames, hunched over in his chair. He did not reply for a while.
“Got any more wood back there? You’ve gotta have some, right?” asked John in a hurried voice. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, it was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t get it out.
“I’m afraid we’re out.” replied the man, his voice level and his gaze focused on John.
“We’re in a forest, there’s nothing but trees here, man. You’re just gonna let it die?” John gestured towards the fire, incredulous. He got up from his chair and sat directly in front of the fire, hands cupping the flames, each trying to steal some warmth from the other.
The man knew how this went, he’d done it many times, perhaps too many. He left his armchair, moving to look out of the window.
The trees swayed in a breeze that hadn’t arrived yet, and a child ran through them, giggling as he was chased by his father in an endless game. They ducked and weaved between the trees, and the rays of a cold morning sun that dripped between their leaves. The two laughed soundlessly in the infinite woods.
“You know why you’re here?” asked the man. They were always so confused, he didn’t blame them.
“I remember the chair. Felt like I was on fire, man. The coldest fire. Don’t know how I got here though.” John shuddered despite the heat from the flames
A couple walked through the woods, hands intertwined and their eyes lost in each other. They walked fearlessly, leaving no marks in the snow, and although they laughed and joked together, they left no words in the air. They paid no heed to the running child and his father, who still played with reckless abandon, their laughter hadn’t dulled, and the white snow-covered ground was unblemished.
“Do you remember why they put you in the chair, John?” The words came with a quiet, practiced intensity, as if they had been read from a script. The man’s gaze was still on the woods outside, he didn’t need to turn.
John stopped cupping the fire with his hands, his mind jolted with the pain of a wound forced open. He sat blankly in front of the flames now, his eyes glazed over in the memory a distant past.
“I-I did bad things. Bad things to good people. I didn’t mean to. I know I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, I mean it. Just help me get home, my kid’s waitin’.” Even as John answered the man, he realized he wouldn’t be going home, not this time. The words were half-hearted, fizzling into the air like the embers of the fire which had grown noticeably smaller, not much remained now. He noticed the embers didn’t disappear, they kept rising and turned into dancing flakes of snow, they drifted out of the window, joining the rest. John idly wondered if it was always so cold there. He had a sneaking suspicion that the other man couldn’t feel it at all. He still stood at the window, slightly hunched.
Another man had joined the group in the woods outside, it was the same man who was walking with his lover, and they still walked together, not seeing the new arrival. This version of the man was different though. His head hung low, and eyes that once beamed in pride and love now lay empty and unseeing, lost in unforgettable torment, like lakes without ripples. He sobbed quietly. What stood out the most about him were his hands. They were covered in slick crimson, the blood was fresh and certainly not his own. It writhed and wormed its way down from his arms to his hands in an unending stream, as if it was still alive, in search of the person it once coursed through. The drops fell from each of his fingertips. turning into snow the moment they started falling. The snow fell relentlessly from his hands, in an uncaring and jubilant dance, and the ivory ground lay as pristine as could be.
At last, the man turned back from the window. He’d seen enough.
“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.” His voice came from the walls, and the flames and from the man himself, John felt it in his bones, colder than the eternal winter outside.
“As for home, you’re already here.” The man’s reply thrummed with a frozen finality, he returned to his armchair, and closed his eyes.
The door to the cabin swung open, John could see the child and his father, the couple in love and the snowing man. He recognized them all. He stood up with what seemed to be gargantuan effort, and turned away from the corpse of the fire. He knew where he had to go, and his feet took him there. He wandered out through the door and onto the snow outside. His foot left no marks, and yet he felt it all; the brilliant chill of a hundred winters forgone and a hundred more yet to come, the warm laughter sheltered in the summer blaze of childhood and the eternal, unwavering smile of the woman he loved.
John lay in the snow, watching the snow drift across a blood red sky, hollow clouds flowing like veins. He closed his eyes and smiled, listening to the laughter of a past long lost, and the shameful sobs of a present he couldn’t escape.
