Something is wrong.
The earth blooms on June 1, every year.
It has always been so, at least since man stopped aging.
The snow piles higher than I’ve ever seen, in any season.
I’ve spent the last eight days shoveling around the place, but the blizzard refuses to abate.
I climbed atop a pile of crates stacked in the center of the room.
Shoved my way up the chimney.
There are footprints in the snow.
I’ve loaded all three shotguns.
I drank the last of the elixir.
Now I wait.
I am ready.