❄️ Cold storage, Pt. 3
The finale of this Substack short!
Welcome back to my short story! I’ll probably elaborate this into something longer, but three parts feels like it works best for Substack. I could be wrong—let me know if I am, I’d love to share my fiction in whatever way works best for you guys. ♥️
The screen goes black. Then, a single line of text:
Retrieve complete.
No prompt this time. No cursor. Just silence.
A live feed of a box—my freezer, actually—plays. One hand left. The other—the larger, hairier one—is gone. My father’s harsh hand. No trace it was ever there.
The hand that remains is open now. The fingers no longer curled in their rigour, but extended. Gentle. Beckoning. It’s not accusing me. It’s asking me to come closer.
The screen flickers. A second feed cuts in.
The bridge.
She’s there—just like before—but this time, she’s facing the camera. Knees drawn up, coat soaked at the sleeves. Her hand outstretched.
I reach forward. Press my palm to the screen.
The room disappears.
I’m there with her this time.
The bridge is quiet. Snow drifts in slow spirals.
She’s perched on the edge, not crying. Just breathing, like she hasn’t been able to for a long time. When I sit beside her, she doesn’t flinch.
“Why now?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You stopped running.”
“I left you.”
She shakes her head. “You stayed longer than you should’ve. And you were seventeen. I was meant to be the one looking after you.”
We watch the water for a while.
“I wanted to jump after you.”
“I know.”
We don’t say anything else.
Then she takes my hand. Warm. Solid. Real in a way that nothing else has felt in a long time.
“You can let go now.”
And I do.
She releases me. Leans back. And vanishes—not into the water, not into air, but into something like light. The screen fades in.
One final prompt:
Cycle complete.
Exit program?[YES]
For once, there’s no other option to consider. No way of running, and for once I do not want to run. Choosing to move on, I click.
He jolts awake. For a moment, he can’t tell if he’s breathing snow or air. The cold is gone. The silence is new.
The lights above are soft, a pale blue glow. Sterile, but not cold.
He’s lying on a cot in a clean, white room. One wall is glass, and behind it, two observers in grey uniforms, holding clipboards, watching monitors.
There are no restraints. Just a pulse monitor on his finger and a thick, quiet silence. There is a jug of water and a cup on the small table to his left.
He sits up. Breathing feels different. Lighter. Like someone cracked a window in his chest. A familiar voice crackles through an overhead speaker.
“You did well. That was a deep one.”
The door slides open. A woman enters. The same one from the clipboard before—but not the same. This version is softer. Real.
She offers a small smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.
“How are you feeling?”
He looks at his hands. They’re shaking, but not from fear. She looks at him with understanding.
“Take it easy. The program is only in Beta phase but it can still be pretty disorienting, especially for longer cycles like this one.”
Settling back into his body, he hears a gurgle in his gut.
“I am starving, actually.”
She nods, as if that’s the answer she was hoping for.
“Let’s get you something hot to eat, then. What happened in there—that’s what the program was meant to do. The investors are going to love it.”
I hope you enjoyed this little jaunt into fiction! I’m going to share my writing more regularly, and I’d love to have you along for the journey.
And don’t forget to hit the comments. Share your thoughts, any stories or TV shows this reminded you of, your own writing, your own struggles with being a writer—anything!