The Silver Chains

A Muskoka winter, a grieving lyricist, and a promise kept in the snow.

The cold in the Muskoka Lakes during February isn’t just a weather report; it’s a physical presence that demands your respect. It’s a dry, hollow cold that settles deep into the ancient granite of the Canadian Shield and refuses to leave until the thaw in May. By mid-winter, Lake Rosseau has transformed from a summer playground of mahogany boats and laughter into a jagged, white desert of pressure cracks and wind-swept drifts. For Christopher, the silence of the woods had always been a sanctuary, a place to escape the static of the world. But today, the silence felt different. It had a cadence to it, a slow-drifting beat that demanded he finally put words to the emptiness that had been growing in the corners of the cottage since the snow first began to fly.

He stood on the wrap-around deck, his heavy winter boots crunching on a thin layer of crystalline frost. He held a ceramic mug of coffee, watching the steam rise in a frantic spiral before vanishing into the -20°C air. The pines were bowing low, their boughs heavy with the weight of last night’s storm, looking like tired giants standing guard over the frozen shoreline. He was lonely, a feeling that usually stayed tucked away in the spare rooms of his mind, like an old piece of furniture covered in a sheet. But on a day like today—a day that was marked on the calendar for two people who were once inseparable—it sat right at the heavy oak table with him, uninvited and persistent.

He rubbed his cheek, feeling the rough stubble of a three-day growth and the sharp, needle-like bite of the frost against his skin. It had been three years since he’d packed up the semi-detached house in Toronto and moved up here full-time. He remembered the noise of the city with a strange kind of detachment now—the streetcars screeching on Queen Street, the sirens in the distance, and the constant, low-frequency hum of millions of people breathing and moving. He had adored that energy once, back when Sarah was there to navigate it with him. They used to walk through Trinity Bellwoods in the autumn, their pockets full of chestnuts, feeling like they owned the world. But after the funeral, the city just sounded like radio static. It was too loud for the kind of thinking he had to do. Up here, the quiet was honest. It didn't hide anything behind the roar of traffic.

He looked down toward the boathouse, which was partially buried in a massive snowdrift that looked like a frozen wave. They had been married in a small, white-clapboard chapel in Port Carling, just a few miles down the winding, salt-stained road. He could still see her in that dress—not quite white, more of a cream color that matched the birches. She had stood against the backdrop of the dark water, looking like she belonged to the lake. Their love had never been the kind of flashy, fragile thing you see in movies; it was more like the granite out here—hard, steady, and built to take a beating from the elements without cracking.

Christopher stepped off the deck, his snowshoes sinking slightly into the fresh powder as he began to trudge along the perimeter of his property. The snow was knee-deep in the open areas, and every step was a deliberate, physical effort that kept his mind from drifting too far into the dark. He found himself reminiscing about their first winter here as he passed the old woodpile. He remembered how they’d spent hours trying to figure out the draft on the old woodstove, laughing even when the living room filled with gray smoke and they had to open the doors, letting the freezing air collide with the heat. It had been a disaster, but they were together, and that was enough.

Sarah had always been the one to make things special. She had this way of making a rainy Tuesday in the middle of a November gale feel like an event. She’d put a jar of local honey on the table, bake a loaf of crusty bread, and suddenly the darkness outside didn’t seem so threatening. He could almost hear her voice now, carried on the sharp north wind that whistled through the eaves—a soft, melodic "Come on, darling, the sun is setting, get inside before you turn into an ice cube!" He stopped by a cluster of birch trees, their bark peeling like old parchment, and felt a sudden, sharp pang of excitement mixed with a hollow, aching sorrow.

He remembered the big hopes and dreams they’d scribbled on paper napkins at the diner in Bala during their first year. They were going to build a guesthouse by the creek, a place for their friends to escape the grind of the city. They were going to spend their sixties watching the sunset from the dock, glass of wine in hand, listening to the loons call across the water. He looked at the empty, snow-covered space where the guesthouse should have been. The memory was a gift, he knew that, but today the gift felt heavy, like a stone he had to carry uphill through the drifts.

It was Valentine’s Day, a date that usually filled the local shops in Bracebridge and Gravenhurst with red ribbons and overpriced roses. Christopher wasn’t a man for grand, empty gestures; he never had been. He didn't believe in the cards or the mass-produced chocolates. But he lived by a code. He had promised her, years ago, that he would always find a way to celebrate the "us" of it all, no matter where they were or how much time had passed. He walked back to the kitchen, stamping the snow off his boots, and pulled out a hidden stash from the top shelf of the pantry: the chocolates she loved—the dark ones with sea salt that she used to say were the only thing that could get a person through a Muskoka February. Beside the bag sat a small, red box he’d kept in a drawer for months, waiting for the right moment.

He sat at the heavy oak table, the fire in the hearth crackling like a percussion section in an empty hall. He pulled his leather-bound notebook toward him. As a lyricist, he knew that words were the only currency he had left. They were the only way he could bridge the gap between this world and wherever she was now. He wrote slowly, his pen scratching against the paper, crossing out lines and starting over until the rhythm felt like a heartbeat. He read the words aloud, his voice low and gravelly, letting the meter carry the weight of the empty house:

"The lake is locked in silver chains,
Beneath the moon’s cold, steady light,
But in my blood, your ghost remains,
To warm the edges of the night.

I’ve kept the vows we whispered low,
When summer wind was in the trees,
And though I walk through knee-deep snow,
I find your footprints in the breeze.

Your laughter is the hidden spring,
That waits beneath the frozen floor,
The song that only shadows sing,
Behind a long-closed cottage door.

So let the winter wind go wild,
And let the granite pulse and groan,
I’m still the man and you the child,
And I have never been alone."

It was his heart on the page. He didn't need a crowd to hear it; he didn't need a stage or a spotlight. He just needed the words to exist in the air. He began to prepare a quiet dinner, the smell of a searing steak filling the kitchen and cutting through the scent of woodsmoke. It was a simple meal, the kind they used to share after a long day of snowshoeing up toward the ridge. As the meat sizzled on the cast iron, he felt a heaviness in his chest, but it wasn't the kind of weight that crushed you; it was the kind that reminded you that you were still standing.

Before sitting down to eat, he stepped out onto the porch one last time to check the sky. The temperature had dropped even further, the air so thin and sharp it felt like breathing glass. He wrapped his arms around himself in a self-imposed hug, looking out at the vast, frozen expanse of Lake Rosseau. Suddenly, the ice "boomed"—a deep, structural groan that echoed across the bay like a distant cannon shot. It was the sound of the world shifting under the immense pressure of the cold, a reminder that even the strongest things have to change.

Back inside, he knelt by the stone hearth, the heat of the fire reddening his face. “This one’s for the archives,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the cedar logs. He laid the paper atop the glowing orange coals. He watched as a surprise of bright orange flame licked the edges of the notebook page, turning the white paper into a swirling ribbon of gold before it crumbled into gray ash. The smoke rose out of the stone flue, climbing higher and higher into the sub-zero night, carrying the message up toward the constellations.

Christopher walked to the window to close the heavy wool curtains and shut out the blackness. As he reached for the fabric, he paused. The sky wasn't black anymore. A faint, ghostly green began to shimmer above the jagged treeline, deepening into an undulating curtain of emerald and violet that danced across the entire horizon. The Northern Lights. He stood there for a long time, watching the celestial fire play out over the frozen lake.

He leaned his forehead against the freezing glass, a stray tear tracing a slow path through the stubble on his face, leaving a faint, shimmering streak on the pane. In the shifting, silent glow of the aurora, he saw the only answer he had ever needed. He blew out the last candle on the table, the scent of beeswax and woodsmoke lingering in the dark, and for the first time in three long years, the house didn't feel quite so empty.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Sarah,” he said to the quiet room. The lake remained locked in its silver chains, but inside the cottage, for the first time in a long time, the thaw had finally begun.