🧊Cold storage, Pt. 2
Things are getting a little out of hand. 👋🏻
Hey guys! Thanks so much for the warm reception on part one of this story. For the longest time, I’ve struggled with self-doubt. I often strangle ideas before they’ve had a chance to grow because I critique them to death. I compare my bits to huge, best-selling writers I’ve enjoyed for years—the ones with an agent, an amazing editor, and a full-time marketing machine behind them.
But I’m working on not doing that anymore, so thanks for joining me on the journey. Without further ado, here’s part two. Enjoy!
🧊 Cold storage, Pt. 2
There was something wrong with the coffee today. I went about my business as normal, waking up, checking the freezer, closing the freezer, brewing the coffee. Routine is important, you see. I sat down at the small kitchen table to start work and took my first sip of the day; a metallic taste filled my mouth. Foul but familiar.
I’m not the kind of person to let beans go stale, and my machine is cleaned every day. I dumped it out into the sink; the coffee was an odd colour, the usual rich brown was tinged with a rusty red. I shrugged my shoulders and started again.
A fresh brew would solve everything, and then we can forget about such an unpleasant overture to the day. While the coffee dripped away, I checked the freezer again—the hands, still in their bags, seem closer to each other than before, pressed palm-to-palm, like they’re embracing.
I don’t like this. I’m not sure why.
I take my second-first cup of coffee to my desk and try to settle down. Woke my laptop. I am stuck on the login screen. Password.
What’s my password? Before I can search my mind, there’s a knock on my door; three individual knocks. Precise.
I freeze. It’s been a while since I’ve had any visitors; months. Or is it days? Anyway, it’s an inconvenience when I’m here trying to get some work done. Important work. I’m foggy on the details but I’ve had a lot on my mind recently, you understand.
The knock again—three quick raps, harder this time. Expectant. I look through the peephole and can’t see anyone but open the door anyway.
It’s a boy, no older than 16, 17 at a push, wearing what I can only describe as a grey high-vis jacket three sizes too big. His hair is drenched, dripping onto the welcome mat—it hasn’t rained today, has it? No cooler, though. Thank goodness.
“Package for you,” he says with a sigh, like he was bored of the words before they came out.
He hands me a crumpled grey envelope, no name or stamp. So creased you’d think someone tried to make origami with it. I take it from him gently—the paper feels fragile like a butterfly’s wing. Slipping the letter out, I noticed my hands are trembling; somehow, I know what it says before even reading it.
Always the coward.
She trusted you.
You failed.
The words sink into me, shards of ice in my chest. I look up, but the boy is gone and the hallway is empty. I slam the door shut and shove the letter in the freezer.
Everything sounds muffled, like I’ve slipped underwater. I barely make it to my desk, to the laptop, to the unblinking password box expecting me to know what to do.
I force my fingers to the keyboard and try to rely on muscle memory. The sequence feels strange, familiar but warped, like typing with someone else’s hands. Like the letters could slip through cracks I can’t see.
Enter.
The background is mine, but the rest isn’t.
Folders and files scattered to the four corners of the screen. I click the audio file titled ‘undertow-final.mp3’ and it sounds like static.
No, waves. Rushing water. Not the kind from the sleep apps. Some files are corrupted; they have names like ‘cycle-5v3’ and ‘STATUS_DELIVERED’.
I open ‘1.1.02.txt’ and it seems like gibberish, lines and lines of random punctuation and letters, until it’s not. Three words jump out:
I SHOULD HAVE—
I close the laptop slowly, gently, like a coffin.
The laptop screen is black.
I don’t remember opening it again, or how long I’ve been sitting like this. The coffee has gone cold, and it’s dark outside. My body shivers.
I tap the screen awake, enter my password. The background has changed. It was a holiday photo before—Italy, sunshine on rolling Tuscan hills. Now, it’s an image of a bridge.
Grainy, underexposed, taken from a low angle like someone crouching. The railings vanish into fog. The river below is ink-black and crusted with snow. You can see the current flowing, a wrinkle in a memory.
It is not a photo, and it is not a bridge.
It is the bridge, that night. I can taste the bile rising and feel the cold creeping up my back one vertebra at a time. The sound of rushing water again, muffled but there, and then—
Pop.
A dialogue box appears. Thin black text on a grey background.
Retrieve?
[Yes] [No]
My cursor hovers between the two buttons. I leave it there for a long moment. I know what’s waiting. Maybe I deserve it.
I click ‘yes’. I don’t flinch.
Well. Our protagonist is having quite the time of it, isnt’ he? I’d love to hear what you think. What awaits him on the other side of this final ‘click’?
📌 If you enjoyed part two, you know what to do; every like, share, and comment counts. Thanks for being here and taking the time to read my work.