The city was Winnipeg, Canada. The air we breathed instantly turned to vapor, and the floors of the workplace were constantly slick with ice.

My name is Marites Dela Cruz, an OFW working in cold storage for three years, cutting, wrapping, and freezing meat products for export.

I had become accustomed to counting boxes, not sins, until that fateful night. In the sub-zero environment of the freezer, we found something that stopped time.

It wasn’t a slab of meat; it was a body. And from that moment on, the cold of my job was no longer the threat, but the person hiding behind the ice.

It was supposed to be a quiet night shift, with minimal deliveries. I was in Bay 9 doing inventory, and the silence was unnerving.

Then I noticed a box that wasn’t on the manifest. It was heavy, intensely cold, but the weight was not the familiar density of meat.

I peeled back the plastic. And there I saw the face, the eyes wide open, the mouth slightly agape, as if trying to scream a final, silent secret.

The chill staring back at me was absolute, and I was the first to recoil. I didn’t scream; I simply froze in terror.

Inside the deep freezer, time stood still. Even when I closed my eyes, the face remained, a secret embraced by the ice that should have been kept hidden forever.

And the hardest truth: I knew the person. “This can’t be real,” I whispered. But it was.

In Canada, everything is cold: the air, the hands, the stares. But I realized there was something far colder: the person capable of freezing the truth.

I ran out, hitting the emergency alarm. The red light flashed frantically on the ceiling, and with every blink, the freezer seemed to mock me: You’re too late, Marites.

People rushed in. Some screamed, some averted their gaze. I just stood there, clutching my dented coffee thermos, a useless symbol of warmth.

I looked back inside. I didn’t know which was more agonizing: that a body lay dead in my workplace, or that a quiet warning I should have heeded preceded the alarm.

In Bay 9 that night, a sin was frozen, and a name pierced my memory— a name I desperately didn’t want to speak but knew I had to reveal.

My name is Marites, an OFW in the frigid city of Winnipeg, Manitoba, and this is how I learned that coldness isn’t just the weather; sometimes, it is the person closest to you.

The person who froze the truth. And soon, you will know who it was. But first, I must confess: I am not innocent in the heat that led to this cold.

---

The Investigation and The Arrival of the Past

The next morning, the sun rose over a thin layer of clouds. Outside the plant, every breath of the workers turned to vapor.

We queued in silence, no one wanting to speak. I stood by the side, clutching my coffee thermos tightly. Three years I had worked there as a packer—quiet, reserved, avoiding gossip or conflict.

But since that night, I felt a shift. Whispers followed me: She was the last person seen with Rico, but why does she act clueless?

I remained silent, but inside, a painful question burned: Why him? Why Rico? Two nights before his body was found, Rico and I met outside the plant.

He told me he wanted to go home to the Philippines, to fix his life, to leave a complicated, wrong relationship. But in his eyes, there was fear, as if he were running from something.

As I entered the plant, the smell of steel and meat greeted me—a normal day, until Sir Ramon, the supervisor, approached. “Marites, please report to the office.” I felt a sudden dread; they rarely called me in.

Inside, two men waited: a police officer in a dark jacket and a man with a calm, soft voice— Detective Manuel Robles, the liaison officer for the Filipino community.

“We don’t suspect you, Marites,” he said. “We just need to know what you know.” I squeezed my thermos, my fingers trembling. “Rico and I shared a shift, but he left without saying goodbye. I thought he was just absent.”

As I spoke, the detective pulled out a photograph: the victim’s face, cold in the ice. I gasped, but no tears came. I was stunned by the realization that the man I had once loved had frozen in the very cold we both sought to escape.

Later, returning to my apartment block (Baracks), I shut the door and sat on my bed. I opened my old cellphone. A draft message remained unsent: Rico, if what you said last night is true, leave now. Don’t look for me.

I couldn’t recall if I wrote it before or after the night of the crime. Time felt fragmented in my mind. Outside my window, the first snowstorm of the year began, as if the sky wanted to bury all the sins below.

In the distance, an ambulance passed. With every flash of its light, I remembered: No matter how far I ran from the Philippines, some sins are never buried by the snow.

The next day, management called me again. I expected the investigation to continue. But before I reached the gate, a white van was parked nearby, and a man leaned against it, staring at me as if he knew me.

He was tall, dark-skinned, with a scar above his eyebrow. He smiled—a cold smile mixed with pure rage. “I’ve been looking for you, Tess,” he said. My blood ran cold, because he was Jerry Dela Cruz.

My husband, whom I left behind three years ago in the Philippines. In that instant, I understood. The cold of the freezer was not the only thing to fear.

There was a coldness that could chase me to the other side of the world, and it was starting again, with the smile of the man I once loved.

---

The Unraveling Lie and The Discovery of The Fixer

After seeing Jerry outside the plant, I found no peace. I didn’t know if I was overwhelmed by fear or guilt. Every time I closed my eyes, Rico’s frozen image appeared, silent, yet wanting to speak the words he never could.

For three days after the discovery, the plant felt dead. The usual noise was replaced by a heavy silence. All workers passed through a metal detector under the watchful eyes of the police. Rico’s name was a curse echoing everywhere.

Detective Robles approached me. “Marites, I need to show you something.” He displayed CCTV footage: a shadowed figure in front of the freezer just before the alarm.

The figure wore a beanie with a recognizable pattern and had a tattoo on his neck—Rico’s tattoo. I gripped the table. “But that’s impossible. If that’s him outside, why is he inside?”

The detective didn’t answer, but I knew he was holding back a truth. I realized I knew nothing. I sometimes heard Rico’s voice in the wind: Tess, someone saw us.

And when I looked out the window, I always saw that white van parked far away. At first, I thought it was my imagination, but when I saw it again near the plant gate, I was certain.

I wasn’t just being watched. And I knew who was behind the wheel: Jerry. That evening, Jerry came to my Baracks. He walked in silently, carrying bread, pretending everything was normal.

But his eyes were filled with rage mixed with a twisted smile. “Why didn’t you come home?” he asked. “Why him?”

I couldn’t answer. I just looked down. “You wouldn’t understand,” I finally said. “I’ve been afraid for so long.” He moved closer, gripping my cheek. It wasn’t affection; it was controlled rage.

“I waited three years, Tess. I didn’t come here to talk.” Before he could escalate, the door opened. Detective Robles, with two officers. “Sir, we need to speak with Mrs. Dela Cruz.”

Jerry glared at Robles, his gaze piercing. “You don’t need to ask anything. All the fault lies with her.” After he left, I felt empty, devoured by the cold air. His voice still echoed: This isn’t over.

The next day, Robles took me to the precinct. As he questioned me, a new report arrived from Forensics. The fingerprints inside the freezer were not Rico’s. They were not mine. They belonged to Gerardo Dela Cruz.

I felt a surge of ice water. Gerardo Dela Cruz. Jerry’s real name. That meant Jerry was there, and he was the last person Rico saw before the ice claimed him.

When I returned to my room, sleep was impossible. The memory of Rico returned: the night he said, Tess, someone saw us. I’m being followed. And now, I knew who that voice in the dark was.

My old SIM card, the one Rico and I used, beeped. A single message: Don’t call the police. I know where you live. My hands trembled as I read the words. I peered out the window. No one. Quiet street. But footprints in the snow—fresh ones.

Slow, heavy knocks followed. Tess. It’s me. The voice from outside. I knew that voice. It was Jerry, but distorted—rage consumed by the cold.

I didn’t open the door. I stayed silent in the dark. After a moment, I heard the footsteps receding, and the sound of the van starting up. I finally understood: the body in the freezer was not just the start of the investigation. It was the start of the cold revenge.

The Black Market Conspiracy and The Final Confrontation

After the fingerprint confirmation, I couldn’t sleep. Every sound, every shadow, was Jerry’s voice: It’s not over. Robles, seeing my fear, gently guided me back to the night of the crime.

CCTV showed a figure entering the admin room at 10:30 PM, using the key card of a former security guard, Anton Velasco. “He’s no longer with the plant,” Robles said. “So who could use his card?”

I suddenly realized. “Jerry. He used to be a technician there before I arrived. He knows the building’s hidden pathways.” Robles, investigating the admin room logbooks, found a strand of black fabric caught in the control panel. “A thin thread… like Jerry’s beanie,” I whispered.

Robles collected it. “Every cold has a trace,” he murmured. “And sometimes, the heart leaves fingerprints too.” Later that day, in the plant canteen, Robles interviewed my co-workers.

June, a forklift driver, spoke up. “Detective, a white van was circling here for nights before the incident.” The white van. I knew it was Jerry. I realized how hard it is to hide a sin in a country covered in snow; every deception eventually melts, revealing the truth.

Robles arranged a safe house for me. “You need to move, Tess,” he insisted. “Why move me if I’m innocent?” I asked. He gave a weary smile. “Because sometimes, the person who wants to tell the truth is the first one they eliminate.”

I went with him. The safe house was small, quiet, with a weak heater. But outside the curtain, I saw the van again, idling. When the headlight flashed, I knew I wasn’t alone.

I called Robles. “The van is outside. It won’t leave.” “Close the curtains,” he ordered. “I’m sending a unit. Don’t go near the window.”

As the night deepened, I focused on Rico’s rosary in my bag. Rico, wherever you are, help me finish this. I knew the cold was not just Jerry. The secret was deeper, colder than the ice itself.

The next morning, Robles arrived with the new report. “The mark on Rico’s wrist—metal restraints. Hypothermia and asphyxiation, but he was restrained first.” “They didn’t leave him, Tess. Someone pushed him in.”

Robles produced the small bag with the black thread. “Confirmed. Acrylic beanie. Same fibers found at a store that sold it to a Filipino with a scar over his eyebrow.” I didn’t need the name. I knew. Robles called his unit: “Confirm plate on the white van. Target: Jerry Dela Cruz.”

A few hours later, I heard the police report: “Van found abandoned in the warehouse district. Smells of gasoline and blood.” In the van, they found restraints, a torn beanie, and a gas receipt. 10:43 PM. The exact time Rico expired.

“Jerry was outside waiting while Rico froze inside,” Robles confirmed. My tears finally came. I couldn’t stop him. I should have been there.

I finally found Rico’s USB drive. The label: Bay 913. The password: 913 (September 13th, the date we started our affair). The files revealed the full truth: the cold storage was a front for a black market export syndicate.

Pharmaceutical compounds, illegal chemicals—frozen alongside the meat. And the fixer managing the operation was my husband, Jerry Dela Cruz.

The murder was not about jealousy; it was a cover-up. Rico knew about the illegal shipments, and they silenced him. I was the last surviving witness.

Robles presented the evidence to the Canadian Border Services. The fraud was massive. Just as we confirmed the syndicate’s operations, a new message arrived on Robles’s email: We don’t melt in the cold, Robles. We’ll meet in the fire.

Attached was a photo of me, taken inside the safe house. “They have an accomplice inside,” Robles stated grimly. “Until we catch the mastermind, you are not safe anywhere.”

That night, the syndicate tried to silence me again. A delivery truck from the plant stopped outside. A gunfight erupted. I was grazed, but alive. One of the assailants, arrested by Robles, was Anton Velasco, the former security guard whose key card was used.

Anton confessed that he and Jerry were working for a larger organization—the one holding the shipment. The next morning, the white van and other evidence were destroyed in a fire at the impounding area.

“This is not just Jerry,” Robles said. “This is a syndicate. And they know you’re alive.” I knew then that my fight was just beginning. It wasn’t just against the man I married, but against the powerful, icy reach of a criminal enterprise.

---

The Final Thaw and The Return Home

Three days passed. Winnipeg was still cold, but quieter. I was in the hospital, alive. Robles visited. “It’s not over, Tess. Jerry’s story has holes. He wasn’t alone.”

He showed me the encrypted video files from the van. “If I’m right, Jerry has a boss.” The chilling reality sank in: there were more eyes watching, more enemies than I knew.

After leaving the hospital, I was moved to a new, heavily secured safe house. But one night, a delivery truck with the old plant logo appeared.

The lights went out. “Tess! Get away from the window!” Robles’s voice screamed over the radio. A bullet shattered the glass. I crawled, grabbing the emergency phone.

Robles and the SWAT team arrived. A masked figure fell, wounded. On his shoulder, a tattoo—the same as Rico’s. “Who sent you?” Robles demanded. The man, Anton Velasco, whispered: You don’t know. The one who controls the shipment.

The logistic head of the plant was the mastermind. The cold storage was his base. The motive was clear: silence Rico, the witness, and silence me, the only survivor.

In a final confrontation on a slippery, icy bridge, the police cornered the last of the key players. I saw the chaos, the gunfire, the final crash.

But the final victory was mine. I confronted Mr. Tan, the logistics head, as he tried to escape. He pulled a weapon. I disarmed him, and the final paper trail fell into my hands. The evidence that closed the case.

As the sun rose, the plant was in flames, the ice melting, the ceiling collapsing. I watched the ice break, symbolizing the end of the immense weight I carried.

“Is it over?” I asked Robles. He smiled. “Yes, Tess. No more ice to hide the truth.” Now, I am in the Philippines. Warm, noisy, the air smelling of salt.

I don’t need to fear the cold anymore. I carry Rico’s rosary, a reminder of the man who taught me to feel again. I write my story now, not for revenge, but for the truth that finally set me free.