THE CABIN
He slid down the last few yards of icy hill and came to a stop in front of the cabin. A smile played at the corners of his mouth and he rubbed his hands together briskly, an effort to bring some heat to his cold extremities.
He hadn't been here since he was in his early twenties. It had been summer then, bright blue skies above and the buzz of black flies in his ears. The cabin seemed different now, smaller. It was almost as though it had been dwarfed by the passage of time and thick blanket of snow under which it rested.
He shoveled off the steps, grunting with the effort of his labours. It was tiring work to be sure but he knew it would be worth thus effort.
Once he was finally in the cabin, he built a fire in the large iron fireplace and sat back as the warmth slowly filled the familiar spaces. It was good to be back after all these years, welcomed into the warm embrace of the cabin, which ha always felt more like home than any other place he had lived.
He listened as the warmth of the fire spread into the metal roof, loud cracks and creaks filling the silence around him.
He opened the bag by his feet and removed three items: a bottle of scotch, a crystal tumbler, and an ornate urn.
He placed the urn on a nearby windowsill and stared out over the snow covered lake for a moment, then poured a healthy serving of scotch into the tumbler. He stood there in the window for a moment, overcome by a sudden flood of emotion.
He raised the glass toasted the urn and nodded his head solemnly. It was good to be back.
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