He stops. Ahead, half-swallowed by drifts and leaning at a tired angle, is a cabin. It's small — barely more than a shack — with a collapsed porch and a door hanging by one hinge. The wood is dark with age, the windows opaque with frost and grime. It looks abandoned. Long abandoned.

He pushes the door open. It groans, shedding a crust of ice. Inside, the cabin is bare — just dust, an overturned chair, a rusted hoe in the corner. But on the floor, in the exact center of the room, a single music disc lies on the wooden boards. Clean. Untouched. Like someone placed it there this morning.