The storm came faster than the forecast promised. Jonas had driven twelve hours to reach the cabin — no signal, no neighbors, just silence and snow. That was the point. He wanted to be alone, to think, to forget. The cabin looked exactly like the photo online: wooden walls, a stone fireplace, and a frozen lake stretching endlessly beyond the trees.

But when he went out to bring in firewood, he noticed the footprints. Small, barefoot, circling the house in uneven loops. He crouched, touched one — soft edges, not frozen yet. Someone had been here not long ago.

That night, the wind howled so hard it made the roof groan. Jonas turned off the lights and sat by the window, watching the snow fall in thick, glowing flakes. Then he saw movement. A figure crossing the lake — slow, unsteady, head down. He blinked, but the snow swallowed it.

At dawn, he wiped the frost from the glass and looked out again. Across the lake stood another cabin — identical to his, down to the split log pile beside the door. In its window, a figure was standing, completely still. Jonas raised a hand, unsure why.

The figure did the same.