THE ICE WALLChapter Two — Don't Open the Window
Ice stood where he was, the dagger still in his hand.
Blood dripped from its blade onto the ice, one drop after another, leaving red stains across the white. They looked so strange that his eyes lingered on them. He stared for a few moments, then raised his head and looked around, as though waiting to find something that could explain what had happened.
He found nothing.
White rocks, the wind howling between them, and that strange scraping sound that had been creeping into his ears ever since the chase began.
But one thing was missing.
His memory.
He had not seen the strike. He had not heard the monster's scream. He had not even felt himself fighting. There had been a moment...
Then nothing.
As though time had cut a piece out of his life and hidden it, only to return him afterward to the same place; standing before a monster's corpse, a bloodstained dagger in his hand.
He lowered the notebook he was holding in his left hand and began turning its pages slowly. He was not expecting it to explain everything, and he did not even know what he was looking for. One word would have been enough. A new line, anything that could tell him that what was happening to him could be understood.
But the pages remained as they were.
Silent.
He lifted his eyes from the notebook and looked at his other hand.
The blood had partially dried, but it still clung between his fingers, red lines that made him feel, for a moment, as though the hand was not his own. His body trembled, and he did not know whether it was because of the cold or the disgust that had risen into his throat.
It was the first time he had ever seen blood this close.
And the first time he had ever held a dagger.
And yet he was standing here as though he were the person who had done it all.
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, but the cold air entered his chest with difficulty. He felt as though his lungs were filling with snow, so he lowered his head and tried to steady his breathing.
Fifteen years.
Only fifteen years.
An age enough to dream about what one will become, not to wake up beside a monster's corpse without knowing how you killed it.
He opened his eyes.
The red stains were still before him, stark against the white ice, almost painful to look at. He kept staring at them until the ground began to move beneath his feet.
He tried to steady himself.
He couldn't.
He fell.
He felt nothing.
Six seconds passed...
Or less.
His eyes snapped open. He sat up, gasping for breath. His hand had sunk into the ice, and its cold traveled from his palm up his arm, bringing him back to reality.
He rose quickly.
He picked up the notebook and brushed the snow from it, then looked at the dagger.
He remained still before it.
It was nothing more than a piece of iron, yet it seemed heavier than anything he had ever carried in his life. He reached for it, then stopped.
Minutes ago, he had wished he had never seen it at all.
Now, he could not leave it here.
He exhaled, picked it up, and placed it inside his blue canvas bag.
As though he were hiding a secret, not a weapon.
He raised his head toward the slope.
The grave.
He tightened his grip on the bag and climbed.
His steps were faster than they should have been, as though he wanted to leave the place before his memory remembered something else. When he reached the open shroud, he reached toward his father's clothes, but stopped for a moment before touching them.
He took them carefully.
Their scent was still there.
Very faint, barely distinguishable, but it was there.
He held them for a moment longer than he should have, then folded them and placed them over his right shoulder.
He turned to leave.
But he stopped.
His gaze returned to the stone.
The name was carved into it:
"Here lies Scholar Naz, aged thirty-four."
A small, tired smile appeared on his face.
It was strange to feel that he knew this name, even though he had never once sat with its owner, never heard his voice, and never seen anything of him except what remained after his departure.
His eyes moved to the final line.
"Died on the 3rd of July, 1811."
He read the date once.
Then again.
He swallowed.
He did not know why, but he felt that this date would stay with him for a long time.
He pulled his father's clothes tighter over his shoulder and began to descend.
The mountain seemed harsher than it had been hours ago.
Every stone was covered in a thin layer of ice, and every step required more concentration than he had left. When he reached the surface, another storm struck him.
He leaned forward.
He drove one foot into the snow, then pulled the other forward with difficulty. The ground clung to his ankles every time he tried to move, while the wind stubbornly pulled his cloak backward.
He clenched his teeth.
The cold was not what bothered him most.
There was something else walking with him.
Regret.
Questions.
And the image of the monster, whose death he could not remember.
He tried to drive it from his mind, but another thought returned to him.
He muttered, barely able to hear his own voice:
"Did... I pass out from fear?"
He stopped for a moment.
"Was there someone else?"
The wind gave him no answer.
He raised his hand and wiped the snow from his face, then his eyes fell on the bag.
He pulled the dagger out slightly.
Its blade gleamed beneath the white light, clean now, without blood, and without an answer.
He put it back.
From that moment on, the bag no longer seemed light.
Time passed without Ice knowing how much of it had gone by.
In Jafa, time was difficult to measure; everything was white, the sky was white, and even the sun seemed cold.
Then he spotted something brown in the distance.
He narrowed his eyes.
A house.
No...
Several houses.
Their triangular roofs stood against the storm, lined up in the distance as though they had known winter for hundreds of years.
He stared at them for a moment.
Then continued.
A little farther on, he found an iron sign planted in the ground. Rust had eaten away at its edges, but the words remained.
He brushed the snow from it.
He read one letter.
Then another.
Then an entire word.
"Luba..."
His eyes widened.
"Lubakova."
He turned back.
It was not complete joy, nor complete relief, but it was enough to lighten some of the weight of the journey.
He thought about the first thing he would do.
He would wash his hands.
Then he would enter the house.
Then...
The monsters.
The thought stopped in his mind.
Who would he ask?
Their house was at the beginning of the village, far from everyone else, and everyone else was far from them.
He continued on his way.
With every step, the village began to draw closer.
The roof appeared.
Then the wooden walls.
Then the chimney.
And a thin thread of smoke rising from it.
Ice stopped.
Smoke.
There was nothing in the world like the smoke from his home.
He quickened his pace.
Then faster.
He could no longer feel his feet, and he no longer cared.
The door was clear before him now.
Only dozens of meters away.
Then his knees betrayed him.
He fell.
It was not a sudden fall.
It was surrender.
As though his body had finally said: enough.
He lay stretched out on the ice, his chest rising and falling violently. His breath escaped in thick mist before his face, while the sky above him remained vast and calm.
He did not think.
He did not resist.
He simply breathed.
Then he remembered the water.
He took the bag from his shoulder and pulled out the flask.
Only a little remained.
He looked at it.
Then he looked at the house.
He smiled faintly.
"We'll share it."
He raised it to his mouth.
The water was relatively warm, and it flowed down his throat as though returning some of the life to his body.
He put the flask back into the bag and stood.
The exhaustion had not disappeared.
But it was easier to bear now.
He stood before the old door.
Silence.
How many times had he opened it?
He did not know.
But this time felt different.
He reached for it.
He hesitated.
He was not afraid of what was inside.
He was afraid that everything he saw might be a dream.
The smell of food reached him.
Faint.
But it was enough.
His shoulders relaxed without him realizing it.
He raised his hand and noticed it trembling.
He looked at it and laughed silently.
"Now I'm even afraid of the door."
He knocked once.
Then remembered his old habit.
Two knocks.
One knock.
Then two knocks.
His own way of knocking, one that no one else used.
He waited.
He lowered the scarf from his mouth, and the cold air touched his face. His wavy white hair moved with the wind, and his blue eyes remained fixed on the door.
Footsteps came from inside.
Light.
Quick.
He recognized them before he heard the voice.
"Who is it?"
One word.
But to him, it sounded like the whole house.
He swallowed.
He tried to keep his voice steady.
"It's me..."
The handle moved.
The door opened.
Warm air rushed outside before his mother appeared; the smell of soup, firewood, and the scent of home that was unlike anything else.
Ice raised his head.
As though afraid the image would disappear if he blinked.
His mother appeared.
Her white hijab framed her face, and her loose clothes protected her from Jafa's dry cold. Her eyes, meanwhile, were blue, the same color he had inherited from her.
She froze for a moment.
She had not expected him back so quickly.
Then she smiled.
She did not wait.
And neither did he.
He stepped forward and fell into her arms.
She held him tightly, and he remained there without saying a word. There was no need for words. The cold remained outside the door; here, there was none of it.
He slowly pulled away from her and raised his eyes toward the house.
Everything was in its place.
The fireplace murmured with the sound of burning wood, the flames danced behind the iron, the wooden table stood near the kitchen, and the small window cast daylight across the floor.
Even the walls seemed more familiar than he remembered.
As though the house itself had been waiting for him.
His mother took his hand and pulled him inside, then closed the door.
The sound of the wind disappeared.
As though all of Jafa had remained behind that piece of wood.
She looked at him.
"You look exhausted."
He smiled.
He wanted to say he was fine.
But his body answered before he could.
His knees gave way, and he fell.
As though the thread that had held him together throughout the journey had finally snapped.
When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the quiet light of a candle dancing across the ceiling.
Then he felt the warmth.
The heavy blanket.
The smell of soup.
He smiled before opening his eyes fully.
Home.
He slowly turned.
The fireplace was burning, and a bowl of soup sat on the nearby table. From outside, he heard his mother moving the dishes around as she did every day.
He picked up the bowl and ate slowly.
It was the first meal he had actually tasted since yesterday.
When he finished, he returned the bowl to its place and made his bed. He folded the blanket carefully and straightened the pillow, then smiled to himself.
"You won't find anything to scold me about today."
He left the room and headed toward the quietest place in the house.
The library.
He opened the door.
Darkness rushed toward him as though the room had been asleep.
He lit a candle.
The shelves gradually appeared; one book, then another, then long rows of old books. The room filled with the smell of paper and dust.
He stood in the middle.
Where should he begin?
He did not know.
But he knew what he wanted.
The monsters.
He began searching.
He pulled out a book, turned through its pages, returned it, then moved on to another. Time passed without him finding anything.
After an hour, he sat on the floor and rested his back against the shelves.
He raised his eyes toward the ceiling.
Even enthusiasm could grow tired.
His eyes fell upon a book with a red cover, its color faded by the years.
He pulled it out.
He read the title:
"Dreams and Wishes."
He smiled.
"What does this have to do with monsters?"
He opened it.
He read:
"Your dream is merely imagination, and a desire for perfection. You will not always find circumstances that help you, and you will not always find the mood you are waiting for. Do not postpone your life until the right moment comes, for life does not wait for anyone."
He stopped.
He read the final line again.
Once.
Then again.
He did not know why, but he felt as though the words were speaking directly to him.
He closed the book and returned it to its place.
He left the library and slowly closed the door.
The candlelight continued to flicker between the shelves, growing weaker and weaker until darkness swallowed the room.
The last drop of wax fell.
And the flame went out.
Night fell.
The village grew quiet, and all movement disappeared from the streets. The wolves returned to their dens, and the predators began their night.
Nothing remained in the darkness but a thin thread of smoke rising from the chimney of Ice's house.
The next morning, light slipped through the window and fell across his face.
He tried to turn his head.
Then pulled the blanket over himself.
He wanted a few more minutes of sleep.
But his eyes suddenly widened.
He sat up in alarm.
"The wolves!"
He jumped out of bed.
"They haven't eaten!"
He quickly put on his coat and went outside.
The cold struck him immediately.
"Are we still at dawn?"
He headed toward the barn.
The moment the wolves saw him, they opened their eyes and rose, watching him as though they had been waiting for him.
He took his stick and opened the door.
One of them leaped toward him.
He struck it lightly.
The wolf backed away.
The others sat in their places, as though they had understood the message long ago.
Ice smiled.
"That's better."
He went to the back of the barn and dug through the ice until he pulled out a frozen piece of meat.
He threw it.
In an instant, the silence disappeared.
Nothing remained but the sound of teeth.
Days passed.
One.
Then another.
Then a third.
Every morning, he fed the wolves. Every afternoon, he searched the library. Every evening, he returned empty-handed.
But his curiosity did not fade.
It only grew.
On the afternoon of the third day, he was sitting and playing his favorite game, Kroshail; he would throw the stone, catch it, then throw it again, until his mother's voice broke the silence:
"Clean your room."
He sighed.
"Fine... fine."
He entered his room and opened the curtains, and light rushed inside.
He took the cloth and began wiping away the dust.
Then he opened the drawer of the bedside table.
His hand stopped.
The notebook.
It was still there.
He smiled without realizing it.
He picked it up.
He opened it.
Blank pages, just as he had left them.
Until he reached the final page.
"Be as you are."
He frowned.
He closed it in annoyance and placed it on the floor.
He turned to pick up the cloth.
Then froze.
The notebook was open.
He hurried back to it.
He closed it.
Left it there.
It opened again.
This time, it was on the first page.
He frowned and moved closer.
It was not the page that was moving.
It was the ink.
One letter appeared.
Then another.
The words began to take shape before his eyes slowly, as though a finger soaked in ink were moving across the rough paper.
Ice did not move.
He did not scream.
He simply watched.
Until the sentence was complete:
"DON'T OPEN THE WINDOW."
Silence fell.
He could no longer hear anything.
Even his breathing seemed distant.
He slowly raised his head.
Daylight flooded the room.
The bed was to his right.
The door was behind him.
And the notebook was in his hands.
Then he heard it.
Knock.
He froze.
Knock.
A second knock.
Slower.
Heavier.
Closer.
His eyes lifted toward the window.