The Train Station Freezer in the Rockies

You arrive at the edge of the Rockies, where the wind howls like a distant train and the snow crunches beneath your boots with a sound that feels older than time. Before you stands an abandoned train station, its timbers groaning under the weight of decades and drifts. A weathered sign swings above the entrance, its faded letters barely legible through the frost: “CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS SINCE 1951. ENTER IF YOU DARE. OR IF YOU’RE HUNGRY.”

The platform is blanketed in snow, untouched except for a faint trail of footprints leading toward a hulking industrial freezer, its door embedded in the train station. A soft humming emanates from within, low and steady, like a lullaby sung by glaciers.

Above the freezer door, a glowing plaque pulses with cold light: “Cold Storage of National Importance. Authorized Potluck Agents Only.”

You knock.

The door groans open with a reluctant creak, revealing a cavern of frost and silence. Inside, rows of shelves stretch into the shadows, each one dusted with snow and filled with forgotten culinary relics. At the far end, seated beneath a flickering fluorescent light, is a lone figure in a massive parka. He’s flipping through a tattered copy of Canadian Living, its pages stiff with age. He doesn’t look up.

“If you’re here for frozen potluck gear,” he says, voice low and gravelly, “you’ll need to jump through some hoops. Nothing’s easy in the deep freeze.” He pauses, then adds with a hint of pride, “I am the Keeper of the Ice.”

Without another word, he slides a tray toward you across a frost-covered counter. On it sit three identical silver domes, each resting on a porcelain plate. No markings. No clues. Just cold, gleaming mystery.

The Keeper lifts a single eyebrow. “Choose. until you're done choosing.”