His birthday is slipping past. On this grey day, a lonely man faces the mirror. In his stare he knows. Yes, knows he will die by his own hand. A husband. A father. A physician, too. He is distant. Disturbed. Depressed. Fractured. The soft smile and gentle voice conceal a calloused soul. A liar. A thief. A killer. He journals in the mornings, pouring out memories and failures. And plans for the end of his days. In his writing is there redemption? Relief? Or does he walk into the winter woods?