EXT. CABIN CLEARING - DAY
Sound of a low, hungry WIND.
White. A world erased by a blizzard. Snow falls in a thick, swirling vortex. The horizon, the trees, everything is gone.
Only a small log cabin stands, half-buried, its roof heavy with snow. A bruised, grey-white light presses down on everything.
ELLA (20s), a hardened survivalist with a face chapped by the cold, fights her way from a lean-to back toward the cabin. She carries a small stack of firewood. The snow is up to her waist, a dense powder that resists every step.
The wind TEARS at her shawl. She stops, listening. A disruption in the rhythm of the storm.
A low GROAN, half-human, half-animal, cuts through the wind.
Ella’s hand goes to the small axe tucked in her belt. She scans the blinding white, seeing nothing.
The sound comes again. Closer. A ragged, wet COUGH, followed by a curse swallowed by the wind.
She moves slowly, following the sound, her snowshoes sinking.
A smear of color against the white.
Dark, wet red staining the snow.
The trail leads to a collapsed shape half-buried in a drift against an ancient oak.
A man. He wears the remnants of a blue soldier's uniform, dark with melted snow and blood. This is RON (20), a farm boy with straw-colored hair, now pale and half-frozen.
Ella stands over him, the wind screaming. She sees the glint of a brass button. British. She hesitates, a war playing out on her face—the warmth of her cabin versus the dying man in the snow.
She kneels. Her numb fingers find his neck. A flicker. A slow, thready pulse.
He groans. His eyes open—slits of hazy grey.
(a rasp)
Water...
The word hooks her. She makes a decision.
She hooks her arms under his and PULLS. He is a dead weight. She drags him through the snow, a nightmare of effort, leaving a dark trail toward the cabin.
INT. CABIN - CONTINUOUS
Ella hauls Ron over the threshold. The warmth of the room hits them. He SHUDDERS violently.
She slides a thick oak beam across the door. The heavy THUD echoes with finality. The storm HOWLS outside.
She strips off his frozen coat. Underneath, his tunic is torn at the shoulder, the linen shirt beneath stained with dried blood.
She sees the gash. Long, ugly, but shallow. It’s the cold that’s killing him.
INT. CABIN - DAYS LATER
The blizzard rages on. The light is a permanent, pearl-grey gloom.
MONTAGE
- Ella boils water in a pot over the hearth, adding dried yarrow.
- She cleans Ron's inflamed shoulder wound. He flinches, his skin burning hot.
- Ron thrashes on a pallet by the fire, lost in fever, mumbling names and places.
- Ella sits in her father's chair, watching him. The axe is propped beside her.
END MONTAGE
Ella pries up a loose floorboard beneath her bed. She takes Ron's uniform and his rifle.
She shoves them into the dark space below. The weight of the rifle feels alien in her hands.
She replaces the floorboard, her face grim. A conspirator.
INT. CABIN - DAY
The wind has died. Weak, watery sunlight filters in. The silence is absolute.
Ron's eyes are open. Clear. The color of slate. He is watching her.
Ella stirs a thin soup at the hearth. She feels his gaze, turns. Her hand rests near a knife on the table.
(a dry croak)
Where...
My cabin. You were in the snow.
He tries to sit up, HISSES in pain, and falls back.
The patrol...
There's no patrol. Just snow.
His eyes scan the small cabin, lingering on the barred door.
Why?
Ella doesn't answer. She ladles soup into a bowl.
Eat.
She helps him sit up. He eats slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving her face. He hands the bowl back, their fingers brushing. A flicker of warmth.
Thank you.
My name is Ella.
Ron.
INT. CABIN - LATER
Days pass in a strange, silent rhythm.
Ron sits by the fire, carving a piece of firewood with a small knife. He is meticulous, focused.
He finishes. A small, perfect finch, its head cocked.
He places it in Ella's palm without a word. It's warm from his hands. She closes her fingers around it.
EXT. CABIN CLEARING - DAY
The frantic YAPPING of dogs cuts through the still air.
Ella freezes, a water bucket in her hand. Inside, Ron is on his feet in an instant, his eyes wide with alarm.
(hissing)
Under the bed. Quickly.
He disappears under the floorboards without a sound. Ella throws a rug over the spot, her hands trembling.
She takes a breath, smoothes her apron, and opens the door.
JEAN-MARC (50s), a wiry trapper with a face like a dried apple and sharp, observant eyes, stands by his sled. His hounds jump and whine.
Ella. Bad storm.
The worst I've seen.
She leans against the doorframe, blocking his view.
Jean-Marc's eyes scan the clearing, lingering on the packed-down snow.
You've been busy.
Have to keep the fire fed.
He looks past her, into the cabin. He sniffs the air.
You got company? Smells like you're cooking for two.
Ella forces a laugh. It sounds brittle.
Just myself. Hungry enough for two in this weather.
Jean-Marc doesn't smile. His gaze is fixed on something over her shoulder. He lowers his voice, casual. Too casual.
Heard the army is looking for a few of their boys. Said they flew the coop up near Fort George. A man would have to be desperate. Or a coward.
He watches her face, his eyes like black beads.
I don't have much use for soldiers. Or their wars.
Neither do I. Well. Just checking.
He gives her one last, long look that seems to see through the cabin walls. He turns, whistles to his dogs, and is gone.
Ella stumbles back inside, bars the door. Her knees give way and she slides down the rough wood, her heart POUNDING.
Ron emerges from the darkness. His face is pale.
He knows.
He suspects.
But she doesn't believe it. The fragile peace is shattered.
EXT. CABIN - DAY
A week later. The sun casts long blue shadows. Ella splits firewood, the rhythmic THUD of the axe the only sound.
She stops. In the distance, three dark figures move against the white. Rifles on their shoulders.
Her stomach drops. She drops the axe and RUNS inside.
INT. CABIN - CONTINUOUS
(a gasp)
Soldiers.
Ron is already grabbing his rifle and a small pack.
No time. The loft. Go.
He scrambles up a rickety ladder to a small loft under the eaves. He pulls the ladder up after him.
Ella throws a bearskin rug over the opening.
A loud, authoritative KNOCK shakes the whole cabin.
She opens it a crack. CORPORAL DAVIES (20s), young but with old, tired eyes, stands there. Two other soldiers behind him.
Ma'am. We're on patrol. Need to ask you a few questions.
I have nothing for the army.
We're looking for a man. A deserter. Goes by the name of Ronald Peters. Seen anyone?
Above, a FLOORBOARD CREAKS.
Ella’s heart stops. Davies's eyes flicker, but he gives no sign.
Haven't seen anyone in weeks.
Mind if we come in? Warm ourselves.
It's not a request. She opens the door wider. They stomp the snow from their boots, filling the tiny cabin with their presence.
Davies stands by the fire. His eyes sweep the room. The single cot. The soup pot, holding only enough for one.
His gaze lingers on the ceiling. On the bearskin rug covering the entrance to the loft.
We have reason to believe he came this way. He was wounded. A place like this... it would be a godsend.
He looks her straight in the eye.
If a man came to my door, bleeding and freezing, I'd help him. Soldier or not. But no one has come.
From above, a faint SCRAPE.
Ella’s eyes dart upwards against her will. The Corporal’s gaze follows hers. They both stare at the bearskin rug for an endless second.
(voice thin)
Rats. They get into the apples I have stored.
Davies studies her face for another long moment. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Well. If you see anyone, you're to report it. He's considered dangerous.
They leave. Ella watches them disappear into the trees. She shuts the door, leans against it, and lets out a breath she's been holding for an eternity.
Ron comes down. His face is slick with sweat. In his hand, the small wooden bird.
INT. CABIN - NIGHT
The sound of a single, persistent DRIP of melting ice.
Ron and Ella sit by the fire. The wooden bird sits on the mantelpiece.
You have to make a choice. If they find me here, they will hang you too. I'll leave tonight.
You won't last a day.
It's a better chance than waiting here.
He’s right. The silence stretches between them. She looks at the wooden bird. She looks at Ron. She makes her choice.
There's an old trapping line. It goes north, through the hills. It will take you toward the French territory. You'll leave at dawn.
He reaches out and takes her hand. A silent acknowledgment.
EXT. CABIN CLEARING - DAWN
The air is cold and heavy with mist. A spectral shroud clings to the trees.
Ron stands in the doorway, pack slung over his shoulder. He presses the wooden bird back into her hand.
So you don't forget me.
(a whisper)
I won't.
He looks at her one last time—a mixture of fear, gratitude, and sadness.
Thank you, Ella.
He turns and walks away, melting into the mist. A ghost.
Ella stands at the open door until the cold seeps into her bones.
INT. CABIN - CONTINUOUS
She closes the door. Slides the beam across. The THUD echoes in the sudden, deafening silence.
The cabin is emptier now. Larger.
She is alone again. She goes to the window and looks north. The wooden bird is clutched in her hand.
FADE TO BLACK.