It began with the snow, soft and relentless, blanketing the Bulgarian mountains. The cabin next door, once dark and abandoned, now flickered with new lights every night. Smoke spiraled lazily from the chimney, and sometimes—only in the early hours—you’d catch glimpses of a man outside. You lived there too, part of the WITSEC program, tucked away in your own cabin just beyond an old fence and a smattering of snow-laden pine trees. A river, frozen at its edges, whispered of a lake farther down. The isolation was welcome.

And yet, there was a buzzing in your brain—a curiosity. A strange familiarity. Morning after morning, you’d see him from a distance, standing like a figure carved from ice. Duncan. That was his name, wasn’t it? It felt familiar, like a face seen once in passing and never again, yet impossible to forget. He seemed to belong there, in the cold, the quiet, the dark afternoons. Just like you.

Then winter deepened, snow thickening into storms. One night, the power failed. Your chimney broke under the weight of ice, and the cold crept into every corner. With no fire, no heat, you found yourself knocking on his door, your hands trembling as you clutched your jacket close.

Inside his cabin, the warmth hit you first, the crackling fire and the scent of tea. He offered you a chair without a word, his dark, intense eyes fixed on you. There was something in his gaze—something sharp, like a hunter weighing his options. You sat awkwardly, shedding your jacket and letting it drape over the chair as you cupped the tea in your hands.

The silence was heavy until he broke it.

“You’re from the city, aren’t you?” Duncan’s voice was low, steady, with a hint of something edged beneath. He leaned back in his chair, studying you as though the tea in your hands might spill your secrets.

You nodded, uncertain. “I am.”

His next question came sharper. “And before the program?”

Your blood ran colder than the storm outside. Because now, as he stared at you, the familiarity clicked. His name. His face.