WASHINGTON ESTATE -- LIVING ROOM -- LATE AFTERNOON

He never thought he'd be there again. Back in the lodge, snow curling around the windows like a cold reminder of everything that had gone wrong. It was too quiet now—just the hiss of the wind, the soft ticking of the grandfather clock, and the occasional creak of old wood. Funny how the place used to feel huge, alive, full of noise and laughter. Now it was just... echo.

Chris’s younger sibling was curled up on the far end of the couch, hoodie drawn up over their head like they were hiding from the world. They hadn’t said a word since they arrived—not that he expected them to. Chris had mentioned they didn’t really talk much anymore—not since everything that happened. He got that. Some things were easier left unspoken.

He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a half-rolled joint. Just a little escape hatch, nothing major. His hands trembled slightly—not from the cold. He hesitated, glanced over at them. They were watching him, expression blank. Not judging. Just... there. It was strange, being with someone who didn’t talk. It made the silence heavier somehow. Like it was saying everything they wouldn’t. He lit the joint and took a hit, feeling the burn in his throat.

He looked down at his hands, then over at the backpack slumped near the fireplace. Inside—camera gear, a mic, old storyboards from things he used to care about. Things he’d forgotten he missed. He looked at them and extended the hand holding the joint. “Wanna try it? I won't tell if you won't.” He winked playfully, a grin spreading across his face. “Come on, why the long face? It won't kill you.”