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 out of place that his eyes remained fixed on them for several moments. Then he raised his head and looked around, as though expecting to find something that could explain what had happened.
There was nothing.
White rocks. 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 scream. He had not even felt himself fighting.
There had been a moment...
Then nothing.
As though time had cut out a piece of his life and hidden it, only to return him to the same place afterward, standing over a monster's corpse with a bloodstained dagger in his hand.
He lowered the notebook 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 the same.
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 in thin red lines. For a moment, it made him feel as though the hand in front of him was not his own.
His body trembled.
He did not know whether it was the cold or the nausea rising into his throat.
It was the first time he had ever seen blood this close.
The first time he had ever held a dagger.
And yet he was standing here as though he were the one who had done it all.
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, but the cold air entered his chest with difficulty. His lungs felt as though they were filling with snow. He lowered his head, trying to steady his breathing.
Fifteen years.
Only fifteen years.
An age old enough to dream about what you might 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 there, stark against the white ice, almost painful to look at. He stared at them until the ground beneath his feet began to move.
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. One hand had sunk into the ice, its cold traveling from his palm up his arm and pulling him back into reality.
He got to his feet quickly.
He picked up the notebook and brushed the snow from it, then looked at the dagger.
He stood motionless 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 toward it, then stopped.
Minutes ago, he had wished he had never seen it.
Now, he could not leave it behind.
He exhaled, picked it up, and slipped it into 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 for his father's clothes, but stopped for a moment before touching them.
He took them carefully.
His father's scent was still there.
Very faint. Barely noticeable.
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.
Then stopped.
His eyes 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 the name, even though he had never sat with the man, never heard his voice, never seen anything of him except what remained after his departure.
His eyes moved to the final line.
"Died on July 3, 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 against 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 dragged the other after it with difficulty. The ground seemed to grip his ankles every time he tried to move, while the wind pulled stubbornly at his cloak.
He clenched his teeth.
The cold was not what bothered him most.
Something else was walking with him.
Regret.
Questions.
And the image of the monster, whose death he still could not remember.
He tried to push it from his mind, but another thought returned instead.
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 a hand and wiped the snow from his face. His eyes fell on the bag.
He pulled the dagger out slightly.
Its blade gleamed beneath the white light, clean now. No blood.
No answer.
He put it away.
From that moment on, the bag no longer felt 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. 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 watched them for a moment.
Then kept walking.
A little farther on, he found an iron sign buried in the ground. Rust had eaten away at its edges, but the words had endured.
He brushed the snow from it.
He read one letter.
Then another.
Then an entire word.
"Luba..."
His eyes widened.
"Lubakova."
He looked back.
It was not complete joy, nor complete relief, but it was enough to ease some of the weight of the journey.
He thought about the first thing he would do.
Wash his hands.
Then go inside.
Then...
The monsters.
The thought stopped him.
Who would he ask?
Their house stood at the edge of the village, far from everyone else, and everyone else was far from them.
He continued.
With every step, the village drew closer.
First the roof came into view.
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 home.
He quickened his pace.
Then faster.
He could no longer feel his feet, and he no longer cared.
The door was clear now.
Only a few dozen meters away.
Then his knees gave out.
He fell.
It was not a sudden fall.
It was surrender.
As though his body had finally said, Enough.
He lay stretched across the ice, his chest rising and falling violently. His breath poured from his mouth in thick clouds, while the sky above him remained vast and still.
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.
There was very little left.
He looked at it.
Then at the house.
A faint smile touched his face.
"We'll share it."
He raised it to his lips.
The water was relatively warm, and it ran down his throat as though returning some life to his body.
He put the flask back in 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 the handle.
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 enough.
His shoulders relaxed before he even noticed.
He raised his hand and saw 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 more.
His own pattern.
One that no one else used.
He waited.
He lowered the scarf from his mouth, letting the cold air touch 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.
Yet 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 stood before him.
Her white hijab framed her face, and her loose clothes protected her from Jafa's dry cold. Her eyes were blue, the same color he had inherited from her.
She froze for a moment.
She had not expected him back so soon.
Then she smiled.
She did not wait.
Neither did he.
He stepped forward and fell into her arms.
She held him tightly, and he stayed 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 and looked into the house.
Everything was where it belonged.
The fireplace murmured with the crackle of burning wood, the flames dancing behind the iron grate. The wooden table stood beside the kitchen, and the small window cast daylight across the floor.
Even the walls felt 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 been left 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 first.
His knees gave way, and he collapsed.
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 gentle light of a candle flickering 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 could hear his mother moving dishes around as she did every day.
He picked up the bowl and ate slowly.
It was the first meal whose taste he had truly felt 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 for 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 slowly emerged: one book, then another, then long rows of old volumes. The room filled with the smell of paper and dust.
He stood in the middle.
Where should he start?
He did not know.
But he knew what he wanted.
Monsters.
He began searching.
He pulled out a book, turned through its pages, put it back, and moved on to another. Time passed, but he found nothing.
After an hour, he sat on the floor and rested his back against the shelves.
He looked up at the ceiling.
Even enthusiasm could grow tired.
His eyes fell on 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 nothing more than imagination, a desire for perfection. You will not always find circumstances that help you, nor will you always find the mood you are waiting for. Do not postpone your life until the right moment comes. 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 movement disappeared from the streets. The wolves returned to their dens, and the predators began their night.
The only thing left in the darkness was a thin trail 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 threw on his coat and rushed outside.
The cold struck him immediately.
"Is it still dawn?"
He headed toward the barn.
The moment the wolves saw him, their eyes opened and they rose, watching him as though they had been waiting for him.
He picked up his stick and opened the door.
One of them leaped toward him.
He struck it lightly.
The wolf backed away.
The others sat where they were, as though they had understood the message long ago.
Ice smiled.
"That's better."
He walked 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 vanished.
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 came back 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, tossing the stone into the air and catching it again and again, when his mother's voice broke the silence.
"Clean your room."
He sighed.
"Fine... fine."
He went into his room and opened the curtains, letting the light pour inside.
He took a 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.
A smile appeared on his face before he realized 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 shut it irritably 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 form 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.