A farmer went into the woods for firewood—but he found something chilling encased in ice.
Inside, a dark shape loomed—blurred, indistinct beneath layers of frost.
The air shifted. The forest around him felt suddenly alive, not with the comfort of wildlife, but with a watchful, unnatural energy. A knot tightened in Henry’s stomach. His instincts whispered that something was wrong. What he didn’t yet realize was that he was standing on the edge of a discovery that would upend his life.
Henry Calloway had always welcomed the solitude of his forest lodge. A retired schoolteacher and widower, he found peace in the quiet rhythm of his days—rising before dawn, stoking the wood stove, and brewing a pot of strong black coffee.
The lodge, built by his grandfather, was a sturdy refuge at the edge of Pine Hollow’s vast wilderness, where towering pines seemed to reach into eternity.
For Henry, the lodge was more than shelter—it was a sanctuary. Here, surrounded by wilderness, he could feel whole again. His days were spent tending to the land, caring for his small flock of animals, and letting the outside world fade away.
That morning, however, the cold seemed sharper, almost biting. Frost laced the windows in delicate, crystalline patterns that caught the thin light of dawn. Henry sat at the kitchen table, coffee warming his hands, eyes tracing the snow-blanketed horizon.
The sky hung heavy and gray, the kind of color that promised trouble. In his mind, the weatherman’s voice replayed: “A significant snowfall is expected across Pine Hollow tonight. Bundle up, folks—it’s going to be a cold one.”
After breakfast, Henry layered himself in his thickest coat, gloves, and boots before stepping outside. The wind carried a faint, hollow howl, hinting at the storm brewing beyond the ridges. His breath puffed in pale clouds as he crossed the frozen yard.
