Morning broke sharp and cold. Andrew was already pacing the room when the first pale ray slipped through the curtain gaps. He stopped but felt no warmth. The chill beneath his ribs remained.

“Andrew, how long?! We’re leaving!” Heather called.

He pulled on a jumper, shoved his tablet and sketchbook into the rucksack. For a second he paused, staring at the small Christmas bag. After a moment’s hesitation he tucked it inside. Lime gummy bears. Last year Veronica tried one and spat it out. Andrew had been hurt then. Now he put the bag in anyway.

His gaze fell on yesterday’s drawing. The elf still stared back. Too perfect.

“We’re going!” his father shouted.

Andrew slung the rucksack on and trudged downstairs.

The car wound along narrow roads between white hills. Houses wrapped in garlands flashed past, windows glowing with Christmas trees. Andrew pressed his forehead to the cold glass. The holiday outside blurred into a smear. He wanted to look away, but in the distance something glinted: a frozen line of water.

“Dad, can we stop?”

Logan nodded and turned the wheel. The car slowed at an old path. Snow lay thicker here; wind drove tiny needles across the ice.

“Not long,” his father said.

Andrew opened the door. Frost hit his face.

“Don’t expect me to get out,” Heather called, eyes closed.

The lake stretched beyond the firs, its surface cracked in fine lines. Everything was silent. Even the reflections.

Andrew took out his sketchbook. The world shrank to the page.

Logan stepped out to stretch his legs.

“Dad,” Andrew said, looking up from the paper, “Grandfather used to say these forests are special. Is that true?”

Logan gave a small smile and walked closer.

“Scotland knows how to surprise.”

The air suddenly tightened. Ice groaned. A gust struck Andrew’s shoulder, and the world tilted. When his vision cleared, an oak stood before him. On the bark a pattern emerged, not carved but growing from within. Two lines curved upward.

Andrew reached out. His fingers traced the contours. The point beneath his ribs answered with warmth.

“Andrew!”

His father’s voice came sharp, frightened. Logan ran down the slope, kicking up snow.

“Are you all right?”

Andrew turned slowly, as if returning from somewhere else.

“Dad… did you see?”

“What?”

“The sign. On the tree.”

Logan looked at the oak.

“I…” He faltered. “There’s nothing there.”

For the first time Andrew saw real confusion in his father’s eyes.

“Dad?”

Logan flinched.

“We need to go,” he said.

Andrew nodded. Something twisted inside him.

When they reached the car, Heather waited by the open door.

“That wind came out of nowhere. I haven’t felt anything like it in years. You two okay?”

Logan pulled off his gloves.

“Just a gust.”

Heather gave him a long look but said nothing.

The car moved on, leaving a shimmering trail on the ice. The steady hum of the engine lulled. Andrew stared out the window and remembered: Uncle Victor’s attic, their codes in the old chest, her whisper. He caught himself wanting to tell her about the sign on the tree. To hear her squint, toss something sarcastic, then finally ask: “And what happened next?”

“Look. Calton Hill.”

Andrew lifted his head. Between the columns, a dark shape gathered. He squinted. A tall figure in a dark cloak. The last light clung to its edges and died.

Andrew pressed his forehead to the glass. The figure dissolved into swirling ash-coloured snow. The point beneath his ribs jerked. Then came the howl. Deep, drawn-out, it echoed off the stone columns and sank into his bones.

“Dad, did you hear?”

“What exactly?” Logan glanced in the mirror.

“The howl.”

Heather turned.

“Andrew, enough.”

“It was here,” Andrew insisted.

His mother went quiet. Logan gripped the wheel tighter. They did not speak of it again.

Dusk thickened. Fog crept along the streets under the headlights. When the car turned the corner, every streetlight went out.

All at once.

Heather drew a sharp breath. Logan muttered something about old wiring.

Silence returned. Heavy. Dense. Pressing against their ears.