The haunting opening strains of the orchestral version of “O Canada” played waveringly from the trumpet of the archaic, hand-wound phonograph. It would play, perhaps, through once more before winding down, and I could hardly find the strength to crank it back to life. The cold exhausted me - the cabin, while still standing, provided only marginal protection from the outside, and the guttering candle - one of my last - provided little in the way of comforting warmth. I had run out of firewood days ago, and there was too much snow to try gathering more. I curled tighter under the heap of blankets and hoped for a change.

As the song played, I glanced up towards the windows. The horizon was still dark, completely dark, without even the hint of glow on the horizon. It had been like that for days, ever since the radio cut out - anemic winter sunlight trickling in by day, more often than not obliterated by clouds and the silent falling of snow, and then bleak darkness by night. Even the moon was nowhere to be seen. I shivered, and ducked back again, as the song came to a close, ending in static as the needle wavered to the center of the record and spun there, aimlessly, until the turntable wound slowly down. Soon, there was nothing left but the sound of the night wind, whistling through the ever-present cracks. The candle’s flame darted crazily once, twice, and finally died, leaving me blinking in the cold and dark, the wind’s howl my only companion, a merciless succubus that slowly stole my last meager bit of warmth. I closed my eyes, knowing that this sleep might be for good, and wondering if I would really mind.

But I didn’t die - not that night. To this day, I still don’t know why. I woke up the next morning, and the next, somehow managing to choke down the half-molded emergency rations and muster up enough strength to get a bit of firewood and find some semblance of warmth. And when I looked back outside, a bit warmer and illuminated faintly by the bit of fire I had managed to start, I noticed the faintest glimmer of light trickling in between the trees. It was oddly comforting, the notion that, despite it all, I wasn’t entirely alone. And the day after that, with a horrible racket, RCMP emergency helicopter hesitantly landed in the clearing, men in day-glow orange snowsuits waving frantically at me, and in moments I was airborne, as the sun slowly set across the seemingly endless expanse of forest and snow, to the half-rejuvenated glimmer of a city, still distant, but getting closer.