Winter was the safest season for traveling in the woods.

Carnivores weren't on the prowl anymore, and the thick sheet of snow gave a broader field of vision in case other creatures approached. Most birds had flocked to warmer regions in search of food. Not a single breath rose from the cold soil. It was as if time had stopped, all animals tucked safely in their dens.

The man's boots sunk in without a sound. The nozzle of his Winchester rifle poked out of his coat while he stalked in a near crouch.

Man claimed this dormant territory as his playground. The weapon was an extension of his arms. His grip fit perfectly around the barrel and trigger, as it always had.

He remembered learning from his old man, admiring Papa gliding through the snow, melting into a stealthy walk, his gun lowered to his thigh.

"Hush and listen, George," Papa had murmured. "It's close."

He'd listened over the excited drum of his heart and looked at the brown trees. It sounded peaceful. A world inside the world, enveloped by a chain of mountains. A light crack in the distance, so light he thought the wind had been the culprit. Papa squatted in such a way as to avoid the disturbing swish of his overalls.

"Come 'ere."

George copied his posture clumsily.

"Now," Papa said in a bare whisper. "d'you see it?"

There was a small, female deer sniffing twigs at its hooves. He would never forget the sheer beauty of that animal, the elegance with which it nudged the snow, unaware. Its tail flicked and its legs stilled in a stunning pose, throat stretched downwards.

After finding his balance, he cocked his gun against his prominent knee, aimed between the conifers, and closed one eye.

Years later now, he was alone. With his ear ready to perceive the slightest crunch of snow or snap of a branch, his sharp blue eyes scanned the wild land, covering all angles in a back and forth motion. In this moment, George was more than a simple human. He was one with the forest, his mind clear of bothers and social construct. Nothing but instinct.

On the ground, round, fresh tracks smaller than his palm ran across the white dune. They led down towards an old decaying hut.

That rabbit was hiding somewhere.

George followed the tracks. Evergreens bristled in his path, then hushed when the wind settled. At last, he could spot the shack. He got into position, scanning the hill again with great precaution. Twigs littered the settlement's outskirts. Rotten logs lay haphazardly near the front door, the pile half-burnt near abandoned tin cups.

Metal chains dangled from an ancient pine tree, both tied at each end of a wooden board above the ground. It swung gently in the breeze, creaking. George looked away from the tracks, and stared at the swing for a long time. Even after so long, this place continued to torment him.

The day he built it, he'd brought his daughter along. It was a blazing summer. He'd pushed her on the swing and they'd bathed in the shallow parts of the fjord.

One second, she was giggling and splashing icy water against the bank. The next, her head fell underwater. When he realized how dull it became, he called out her name. No answer, no bubbles, no movement. Panic immediately seized him and he dove into the current, trying to find her body.

Those minutes of searching had been the longest, most terrifying minutes of his life. Finally, George pulled out his little girl and hauled her to the edge, where he began CPR, screaming like a madman. Her lips were tinted blue and her chest wouldn't rise. Frail shoulders pressed into the mud as he persevered in his efforts to revive her. Some water dribbled from her mouth, but not enough. And too late.

George glanced at the sky then back at the swing. Not a day went by where guilt didn't crush his soul, and the look of horror on his wife's face the moment he returned home...

The ache stung his heart. He closed his eyes to picture his girl giggling by the water, sun beaming down on her soft blonde hair.

As he reopened them, something moved near the house's window. The curtains. He focused his attention upon them, expecting to have imagined that, but the tattered drapes fluttered again like the door was open. Except it wasn't. George inched closer, gripping his Winchester tight. He trampled down the hill, muscles tense and knuckles white, until the rifle's nozzle tapped the entrance.

"Anyone in here?" he hollered.

There came no response. Overhead, an owl flew and took a plunge, claws digging into the snow. It gained back altitude, a mouse caught between its talons.

George chose not to wait. He kicked the door open, causing the brittle hut to shudder. The floor groaned under his weight while he inspected the makeshift kitchen. The rusty sinks didn't offer water anymore; the only light bulb hanging from the ceiling had died; dust floated about like someone just passed through. Thin, wooden furniture was hauled into a corner. Chairs, a table, a ragged broom. His eyes dropped to the fireplace.

A child stared directly at him, huddled and silent. It took him a while to determine it was a girl, a brown-eyed girl with coal black hair. Dirt stained her skinny, pallid shins, and she was barefoot.

George kneeled slowly and put his gun down. "Don't be afraid. I don't mean no harm. What happened to you?"

"I-I was chased," she uttered, her voice a sweet, mellow chime barely audible.

He leaned forward to hear better. Upon doing so, he noticed that her cheeks, full and pudgy, were also stained. Dried tears or what seemed like it had streaked over the dirt. She cradled a pine cone. Despite superficial differences, she was strikingly identical to his daughter: those gangly limbs, an adorable nose, pearl skin and that air of innocence all children carried. Moreover, this stray girl must be around the same age as her when she...

"Who chased you?"

Her fingers clenched around the pine cone. "W-wolves..."

His astonishment was so profound, and the child's fear so transparent at the reason's vagueness, that he resolved not to question her further. How she escaped them was beyond him. Perhaps she ran away from her parents in a fit of anger and ventured too far, or simply got lost.

***

When the child energetically skipped out of the hut, it was snowing.

Delicate flakes landed on frosted needle tips. The valley shone with ivory, grey, and rich green shades under the clouds. George wrapped the strap of his rifle around one shoulder and watched the girl reveal her palms to capture specks, reminding him of how his own also loved playing in the snow.

The sight muted him until he realized all the girl wore was a pink, torn summer dress. Her lips were blue though she didn't shiver.

"Ain't you gettin' cold, kiddo?"

A brief gaze back and she smiled. "No, sir."

It didn't seem right. He began reaching for his backpack, where he'd stowed an extra jacket, but the child stepped farther off.

"Hey, come back here!" he shouted. "You ain't runnin' like that in the snow!"

"Follow me!" She was disappearing among the trees.

Grumbling, he sped up and muddled her prints on the ground. She dashed across the dunes, more agile than he expected, like a magnet attracted her to a location.

"Where you goin'?" George panted, struggling to catch up. As soon as he reduced the distance between him and the girl, she'd hop faster until he was running. "Stop!"

"I know where my father is! He was right there, just a little more! He's waiting for me so we can go home together! He's right over there..."

He ducked under a branch, squinted under the glare of the sun, but found nobody waiting in the woods. He wondered whether the child knew the terrain at all. The weapon felt heavy as it slapped his chest, his winter gear hindered him considerably. In his throat, the air burned as his body grew hot.

They journeyed up and down the hills, through meadows with higher snow and shadowed areas, until the elms and spruces gave way to the vast, three-mile wide fjord. Rocks formed a stable island to stand on, curved but smooth, a shore right above the limpid water. The child stopped there and admired the gulf's graceful curves.

The surface was pristine, glazed with frost, and sent out a raw silver glare in the daylight. Beyond the wide channel on the other side, mountains and steep cliffs rose up to their full potential, gentle giants watching over the still stream. Fog covered them at the top.

George paced to the edge. "This the last place you saw your papa?"

She didn't answer. He asked her twice when he twisted to find, with a staggering confusion, that the young girl was gone. Vanished without a trace.

His stomach dropped like a ball of lead. He called her out several times, waiting for her to jump out of a shrub. Children loved to scare people.

It was the sad truth.

But minutes went by and she didn't reappear. He couldn't trust his senses.

George walked in circles on the island and searched for another man that might be looking for a daughter, but to no avail. He ceased all efforts, in stark disbelief. Was he going mad after his daughter drowned in this very lake?

A familiar bitterness gripped his innards, and he peered into the sinister haze of the depths below. He saw a hand.

An unmoving, curled hand, the color of snow, swaying under the surface. It was floating up. The hand was attached to a naked, tiny arm. Then another arm. It looked unreal, rippling with the faint current, the skin far too wrinkly and discolored. A mass of blonde hair and weeds began to emerge, slowly approaching the island. And ripped cloth started to-

George sprang forth with an inhuman shriek, falling to his knees.

He smacked the surface, then dove his hands into the icy, bone-chilling water. The face of his daughter remained anchored, painfully unreachable, eyes closed like she was merely sleeping. He punched the water, unable to fathom why he couldn't grab an arm, couldn't pull her out. Every time he should have touched a wrist, his fingers glided through water and her arm faded.

He cried out her name, begged the lord almighty to save his little girl. It was unmistakably her. She wore the same pink dress as on that day, her hair loose, and she'd wandered barefoot in the lake. There was her pointy chin and small nose, the porcelain complexion... Her beautiful face haunted him every bloody night. What he did was unforgivable.

George's desperate screams became hoarse. He gazed around the calm bay and, through laboured wheezing, decided to jump.

Glacial water hit him full force.

Bubbles drifted towards the surface, and his limbs flailed. Soon, the useless struggle expended his muscles. George went flaccid little by little, until he could no longer move, paralyzed by the cold. The vastness of the fjord dragged him under, shutting out all light as he sunk deep. Cool blue turned into pitch black as it carried him swiftly, hands deadly but gentler than feathers. It was almost lulling... beguiling.

His daughter was nowhere to be seen in the darkness.

Perhaps the lack of air was already ravaging his mind. A wicked, faint cackle echoed from the murky depths. A child's laugh. It hummed, gradually sounding louder and demented. His fingers frantically clawed at water. Something latched onto his ankle, pulling him to the very bottom with formidable power.

George fought to swim upwards but the hum floated to his ears, singing, "Now, we can be together forever, papa..."

The pressure grew and grew in his skull, threatening to burst. Fear roiled in his gut. A long-held, garbled scream let loose, sending another flurry of bubbles to the serene outlook of the shore.