Provisions and Paranoia

The sledge runners grind to a stop ten meters from the door. You see it before your mind admits it: the outer hatch hangs open a hand's width, a black wedge of dark exhaling steam into the colder dark. You did not leave it that way. You are certain. You are almost certain.

The snow around the threshold tells a story you cannot read. Boot prints — your size, your tread, the cracked heel you've been meaning to patch — track outward toward the eastern horizon, and others track back in. Two sets. Or one set, walked twice. Or one set, walked by two.

Inside, the generator still hums its patient, indifferent hymn. Something has been keeping it warm for you. Something has been waiting.