You decide to try to go back. You follow your footprints carefully, looking for every turn that you took. It takes you longer to return, your pace reduced to a walk as a result of your fatigue. A dusky colour reigns over the sky as you approach the clearing.
You are dismayed to find that it is empty. The patch of crimson snow is no more, having been kicked away by the man. He seems to have left not long after you did. You see a set of bootprints, heading in the opposite direction to the one you took. They are deep, somber, as if their owner was mourning something. You survey the clearing once more, but it is empty, save for you. You call out, perhaps clinging to the possibility that he had waited for you.
There was no reply.
The silence deafens you, and you realise what the owner of the bootprints was mourning. Without him, you have no chance of survival.
You lay in the snow, curl up in a ball, and accept your fate.