Bare Feet on Black Ice
The cache lid yawns open, half-buried tins scattered across the snow like vertebrae. Your headlamp catches what shouldn't be there: footprints. Bare footprints, each toe distinct, pressed into ice that would weld skin to bone in seconds.
They lead away from the station, into the dark that has no morning. Your breath fogs. Somewhere out there, something is walking without shoes.